


neither lion nor leopard

by medeaa



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, reckless use of homeric language, some brief violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 14:49:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20293255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medeaa/pseuds/medeaa
Summary: The first time Grantaire sees him, he mistakes him for a god.[Atalanta retold, but with less murder and more flirting.]





	neither lion nor leopard

**Author's Note:**

> sum thoughts:  
\- when i started writing this i was reading homer and somewhere towards the middle i reread pjo and then by the end i'd reread les mis so if there are huge tonal shifts. this is why.  
\- if you read faster than a hairpin trigger or ave atque vale: i haven't forgotten you, i promise

The first time Grantaire sees him, he mistakes him for a god.

In the mass of bronze and leather and snorting horses, he’s like a beacon of gold. The hair flowing underneath his helmet outshines his bronze armour. Wild curls fly back in the wake of his thundering horses, all black mares. Grantaire sees the flex of muscle in his bronzed forearms gripping the reins, in his thighs, holding him steady across tight curves. He can’t see his face through his helmet from this distance, but for the determined clench of his mouth and the strong set of his jaw. He pulled ahead easily in the very first lap, and hasn’t looked back since.

Grantaire’s first thought is that he’s in love.

His second thought is wondering why in the name of all the gods one of them would be competing in a chariot race being held in honour of some visiting prince.

His third is, _thank gods I’m not competing against him_. He took a spear to the thigh a week ago, so his mother is making him observe the chariots with the rest of his family. And it’s a good job too; the host prince losing to an unknown would be an embarrassment. Grantaire, however, is no stranger to embarrassment: his ugliness is matched only by his contrariness, neither ideal traits of a prince.

The crowd roars as he pulls across the finish, and Grantaire raises himself to his feet to see, ignoring the slight throbbing in his leg. He grips the reins of his horses with one hand as he removes his helmet with the other, holding it up in victory. Grantaire swallows. Aphrodite preserve him. The angles and lines of his face are strong and severe, and though his eyes are wild with victory there is no smile to be found in them. Grantaire _feels_ like he’s looking at a god. The breadth of his shoulders and his imposing height certainly don’t hurt that impression. He looks like Ares, like Apollo. He’s the most breathtaking thing Grantaire’s ever seen. He watches as he steps down from the chariot and rubs down his horses off the course, handing their care over to an attendant when the last of the chariots finish their final lap. Grantaire sees Bossuet at a distance, talking with another racer and patting his brown mare. At least there’s a friendly face here, for when he’s free to do as he pleases.

“It is not often that we see a race such as this one,” Grantaire’s father, King Oeneus the charioteer, says, voice booming. “Upon whom does our royal house bestow this garland, and to which house do you belong?”

The man walks up to face his father, sitting in the shade. Grantaire can make out the sweat dripping down the sides of his face- his _handsome_ face. He forces himself to look somewhere else; he doesn’t know the penalty for lusting after a god, but it’s probably not good.

“My name is Enjolras, and I belong to no house.” He speaks with authority, ignoring the mutters surrounding him. Grantaire grips his chiton with sweaty palms, feeling for the lump he’s tucked away.

“No house?” his father asks. “Surely, your father would be insulted to hear that you deprive him of recognition for having such a fine son?” 

Enjolras’ expression doesn’t change. “I am under the patronage of the goddess Pallas Athena and have been since my father cast me out of his house as an infant.”

Grantaire loses track of the rest of the ceremony; he has too much leftover adrenaline from the race and the sight of its winner. After the libations have been made, he finds Bossuet at the feast, between his companions Joly and Musichetta.

“Better luck next time, eh, Bossuet?” he says, clapping a hand on his shoulder and squeezing in next to them.

Bossuet laughs and hands him a bowl of wine. “If your father’s guest of honour is competing? No way.” Joly and Musichetta laugh along with him, each holding one of his hands.

Grantaire grins. “So you’ve heard of him before?” He leans in. “Who is he?”

Musichetta shrugs. “No one’s really sure, he just turns up sometimes.”

“Turns up when omens are bad, you mean,” Joly inserts. His expression has turned serious. “It’s never good news when Enjolras shows up, it means one of the gods is about to get angry.”

“What, you think he’s some kind of divine messenger?” Grantaire scoffs. “He looks the part, if that’s true.”

Bossuet snickers into his wine. “Good luck with that, if your intentions are as transparent as you make them sound. He’s sworn never to marry to show his devotion to Athena.”

Grantaire feels himself deflate a little. He downs the rest of his wine with a frown. It’s more dilute than his father usually allows, gift from Eleutherios himself.

“You know a lot about him,” he says. Musichetta reaches out to readjust the thin circlet of gold in his hair that’s been slipping all day. “Why have I never heard of him before, if he’s supposedly the next best thing since Herakles?”

Bossuet snorts. “Maybe it’s a good thing you haven’t. From what I’ve seen, he’s the best huntsman alive, and the fastest one too. And I don’t know if I would want to face him in combat either, he looks like he’d gut you in a heartbeat.” He shivers, laughing.

“I’ve yet to meet someone who can beat me in pankration,” Grantaire throws out, cocky.

Joly smiles at him. “Then, I suppose you’ve just met your match.”

***

Grantaire likes walking in the gardens. It offers a calm place to think, and in the evening the air is cooler. He likes it cold, and he’s often in need of a calm place to think.

At some point he settles on a bench, feels for the lump wrapped away in his chiton. He pulls it out gingerly. It’s a lump of wood, singed at one end. The evening is dark enough that he can’t make out the whorls in the grain, but he knows them like the back of his hand. Better, even.

The urge to curse at the Moirai chokes him again, but he knows how foolish that would be. He wants to rage at all the gods, he wants to drink himself into a stupor, he wants to throw away the crown upon his head and retreat somewhere they don’t keep fires burning everywhere. He wants to live; he wants to die.

He stuffs it back into the folds of his chiton and stalks to the edge of the garden, where the carefully pruned growth turns into something wild. A glint of gold in the trees catches his eye. He ducks and hides, a hand on his sword.

“Who’s there?” he calls. “Declare yourself!”

“I do not declare myself to lazy princes who cannot even show themselves,” a voice calls back to him. Enjolras drops down from a tree, easily, like oil dripping into a bowl. He would almost look bored, if his expression in the waning light weren’t so proud.

Grantaire feels annoyance prick at him. “Bold of someone with so much arrogance to go around calling on other people’s flaws.” He grips the handle of his sword. “What are you doing, lurking in my father’s woods? Come to bring the god’s wrath down on us?”

“_That’s enough_,” Enjolras snaps, and Zeus almighty Grantaire is frustrated that it sends desire shooting through him. “Leave me be if all you intend to do is breathe baseless gossip at me.”

“Baseless gossip has an impressive track record, if what my friends tell me is true,” Grantaire snaps back. He likes seeing how Enjolras is coming alive, his cheeks filling with colour, his brow breaking its stoicism. He’s like a pillar of flame, and Grantaire is enough of a masochist to want more. “And that still doesn’t explain why you’re hiding in my father’s woods at this hour.”

Enjolras draws his sword. Grantaire’s mirrored him without even blinking, but he’s surprised when he throws it point down into the ground. “I’m not here to bring harm to your household. My lady told me to make myself known in Calydon, so I’ve done as she’s asked.” When Grantaire opens his mouth again, Enjolras levels him with a fiery glare. “And I prefer sleeping in the outdoors.”

“We have rooms in the palace, if a godlike man of divine favour would deign to humble himself enough to sleep among lowly mortal folk,” Grantaire sneers, excessive, because he wants Enjolras to say he’ll come in, so he goads him into saying no. Lusting after the favourite of a god who’s sworn himself celibate is little better than lusting after a god themselves. In fact, Grantaire thinks, it might be worse.

“Tell me why I would accept the invitation of a man who bears arms at his supposed guest,” Enjolras says. Grantaire’s eyes snap down to where he’s still holding his sword at the ready, and sheathes it, sheepish. He raises his hands. In truce, he hopes Enjolras interprets it. It feels more like surrender to him.

“Are you sure you won’t take a room? My father has said that you should want for nothing.” His leg, although almost entirely healed, is beginning to bother him again. He leans to his other side as surreptitiously as he can. No sense is showing his weaknesses to a stranger. Even if he is a stranger with the body of a god and a face that would make even Eros weak.

“No, I’m quite sure,” Enjolras says. He’s not spitting fire anymore (Grantaire shudders internally at the thought) so he takes it as a good sign. “Thank you for your hospitality, in any case.”

Grantaire nods at him and heads back to the palace, braziers burning low in the alcoves. Before he’s not more than ten paces away, he turns. Enjolras is still standing there watching him, like a gleaming beacon in the darkness.

“Why _do_ you prefer sleeping outside, then?” Grantaire calls.

Enjolras’s teeth are like pearls in his mouth when he speaks. “I was suckled by a she-bear and raised in the wilderness,” he says, solemn, before he turns back into the trees.

_Zeus, father of men_. Grantaire needs a drink.

***

Grantaire’s very rudely awoken by a sandal on his cheek. He shoves it away and scrambles out of bed. “What the _fuck-_”

“Get up, it’s nearly midday,” Bahorel’s voice says above him. “Princes don’t sleep in.”

“Princes do whatever they please, and be it on your head to declare otherwise,” Grantaire mutters darkly. He rubs a hand over his face. “This prince is also supremely hungover, and would like you to leave him in peace.”

“This _prince_,” Bahorel says, throwing a tunic and belt at him, “is also going to be late to the pankration the prince of sandy Pylos was promised.”

Grantaire’s groans. “May you one day bed a beautiful woman only to find that she’s a gorgon.” He shucks on his clothes, slips on his sandals and straps a knife to his belt. When Bahorel’s back is turned, he pockets his kindling, hidden under the mattress.

When they reach the bright sunlight of the day, Grantaire sees that it’s a proper tournament. His blood starts pumping, sluggish from last night’s wine. He loves a good pankration. There are only two rules: no teeth, and don’t touch the eyes. It’s like the sport was made for him; it doesn’t even have to be done sober, as long as he’s got his wits about him.

Nudity and therefore no place to keep his firewood is perhaps the only downside to pankration. He greets his mother with a kiss and slips her the kindling. She smiles at him, but it’s cold. The Moirai tied his life to that small piece of wood, but they also left his fate in his mother’s hands. Althaea, although cautious with his safety, is not altruistic, and Grantaire doesn’t trust that one good disappointment wouldn’t lead to his going up in smoke. Her smile is perhaps the only cold he does not welcome.

Grantaire strips himself of his clothes and pours oil over his shoulders, rubbing it into his skin. When the silver urn is brought out, he gathers around it like all the other contestants, about eight of them in all. Being the firstborn son of the host king, he says his prayer to Zeus and draws out his lot, a gleaming Δ. When they’ve all drawn their lots, Grantaire looks for his match and freezes on the sight of Enjolras, equally naked and oiled and gleaming in the sun, a vision of Pandemos’ blessing (or perhaps Pandemos’ personal curse upon a very exposed Grantaire). His hair is like spun gold, the wiry hairs all over his arms and legs glinting when he moves. Grantaire is overtaken with panic, praying to whatever gods will listen to not let his first match be against Enjolras. He could almost collapse with the relief of seeing Feuilly grin at him, brandishing a delta.

“Zeus has smiled on me today, I’m ready to taste the victory of beating you, R,” Feuilly says after he’s clapped him on the shoulder and gotten into his stance.

“The only thing you’re going to be tasting is my fist,” Grantaire grins.

“Loser owes the winner a cask of wine?” Feuilly proposes, extending his arms.

“Make it two,” Grantaire says. The referee gives the signal, and Grantaire dodges Feuilly’s swing easily.

He ends up winning with a heave from behind that leaves Feuilly gasping for breath and holding up his index finger. He helps him up, sweat pouring down his body, and mutters, “I’m holding you to that wager.” Feuilly curses at him with a laugh.

Grantaire raises a triumphant fist towards the spectators stands, looking at the polite clapping from the queen with something curdling in the pit of his stomach. He wins the next round as well, with a well-placed kick to the stomach.

He nearly drops the water that Bahorel has handed him when he sees that his final opponent is Enjolras. He is also dripping sweat; it runs in rivulets down his chest, tracing a path through the lines of his muscles. Grantaire swallows. He doesn’t want to get anywhere near that naked body; he wants to get so close to it that he’s consumed.

Grantaire is no stranger to lust. He’s the eldest prince of Aetolia; maids and serving boys alike are often in his bed. He is not, however used to such a burning feeling of desire: usually his bedfellows are a means to a satisfied end, and he generally tends to avoid anything to do with burning on principle. But Grantaire would be lying to himself if he maintained that lust was the only thing on his mind. He’s the eldest, but also the ugliest, and most unpleasant of all his siblings. His conversation with Enjolras yesterday evening was exhilarating: Enjolras, beautiful and wrathful, had spoken to him without regard for his title or his ugliness. Grantaire acknowledges that is a pitiful comfort; to be so scornfully addressed should not set his heart racing, but when the one addressing him could be Apollo himself, he can’t help it.

They face each other, bodies glistening from that mix of oil and sweat that feels so familiar to Grantaire. The referee gives his signal. Grantaire swings, but Enjolras sidesteps easily. He pays it no mind; the first parts of a match are all about testing out an opponent’s strengths and weaknesses. He expects Enjolras to retaliate, to test him in return, but when he does not, he swings again, feinting a left and coming in from the right again. Enjolras sidesteps again, and Grantaire’s interest grows. This is going to be _interesting_.

The dance goes like this: Grantaire reaching for Enjolras, Enjolras leaping, never reaching back. It goes on for long minutes; the heat of the sun is bearing down on their backs. When Enjolras finally retaliates, Grantaire is almost not expecting it. He is blown back by the force of the kick but catches him behind the knee. And then the dance begins, real this time.

Grantaire’s breath is expelled in a groan as Enjolras’ elbow lands in his gut. He catches him round the waist and throws them both to the ground. They roll, landing blow after blow, bodies sliding slick against one another. Enjolras locks his shoulder; a breath later and Grantaire chokes him from behind. If Grantaire were not so stubborn or had not spent so many years of his youth learning pankration, he would have yielded by now. It feels as though he’s fighting a bear.

It all comes to a head when Enjolras has him pinned on his front. Enjolras’ thighs are pressed against his buttocks, his knees against his thighs, his forearm keeping him in a chokehold. It only takes Grantaire one second to take in how much he likes Enjolras’ weight above him before he raises his index finger; he can’t stay against Enjolras’ naked body for one more breath.

Enjolras climbs off of him and offers him a hand up. Grantaire takes it, lets go as soon as he’s on his feet.

“Most men wouldn’t have beaten me,” he says, catching his breath.

“I am not most men,” Enjolras says, before going to acknowledge the king.

***

The delegation from Pylos leaves the next day, and finally Grantaire’s time is freed of most of his more tiring obligations. In the evenings, he finds himself sprawling drunk over a concerned Joly or an enabling Bahorel and lamenting his treacherous heart. In the nights, he finds himself dreaming of golden hair and thick thighs and waking in cold sweats with sticky bedclothes. He takes every willing blond servant to bed that he can find; when that doesn’t work he switches to dark-haired ones. Still, he cannot rid himself of the longing that’s filled him. A yearning. He picks fights with whomever crosses his path; none of them rise to the occasion as Enjolras had. He craves that friction, desires it. Enjolras’ self-possession and stony righteousness and subsequent absence have brought to light Grantaire’s worst qualities, and he feels as though they’ve begun to fester. He feels like less of a man than he’d been before, but that’s not true. He’s the same, just aware that Enjolras is a man who is _more,_ and he is breathtaking for it. Grantaire is drawn to it like a tested blade is drawn to a man’s heart. He’s taken to spending long hours pacing, turning his small piece of firewood over and over in his hands. He has always favoured Aphrodite, but he prays to her more often.

The scrape of the whetstone over his blade is loud enough that he does not hear Enjolras enter the armoury as he tends to his sword. He glances up and snaps his gaze away immediately. The sight of him in all his glory strikes Grantaire like a physical blow after days upon days of dreaming of it.

“Is there another whetstone?” Enjolras’ voice asks, and he looks up in spite of himself.

“You can take this one, I’ve just finished with it,” Grantaire says too quickly.

“Don’t hurry on my account,” he says, and truly, he looks unbothered. _Uncaring_ is probably the more accurate description of his appearance. As if anything that isn’t on his path or in his wake does not matter to him. It’s a god-granted expression, stony and forthright and belying the divine wrath that he’s undoubtedly capable of.

“No, really, I’m done with it. Unless it’s less my comfort and more your cleanliness that’s your concern,” Grantaire says, because he can’t help himself. He wants Enjolras to rise to his baiting, wants to see that divine wrath unbridled and leveled at him in all his golden splendour. If Grantaire feels a little pathetic, that’s his concern and his alone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Enjolras says sharply, and Grantaire’s heart starts beating that much faster. He’s a masochist and he knows it.

“Wouldn’t want the favourite of a goddess to have to debase himself by sharing tools sullied by an unholy wretch like me,” Grantaire says lightly, only half joking.

Fire ignites in Enjolras’ eyes. It makes Grantaire’s mouth go dry. “The lives of all men are equal,” he hisses. His spine is rigid; he is unwavering. Grantaire is weak for it. 

“Isn’t that thought untrue by virtue of the fact that kings and princes are held in higher regard by the gods and by the people alike?” Grantaire leaves the whetstone delicately on the bench he’s in the process of vacating. He does not hate himself to stay in a room alone with Enjolras, and he can’t bear the thought of treating anything Enjolras will handle with less than his full care. “Or by virtue of the fact that you have a goddess’ favour?”

Enjolras snarls. “Having the favour of Pallas Athena does not make my life matter more than the life of one of your subjects, nor does your title or wealth.”

Grantaire grips his kindling as surreptitiously as he can. Aphrodite have mercy, the wave of longing that’s sweeping over him is enough to make his knees threaten to buckle. He has to get out of here. But as sure as his life could go up in a puff of smoke, he can’t stop. He can’t draw himself away; he feels like a dog being called to its master, he feels like an insect crawling to the light.

“A title may not affect my life’s worth, but I can assure you that an ugliness from the depths of Hades and a personality to match does nothing to endear me to the gods.”

“You are the only one of the two of us who calls yourself ugly. You debase your own value to yourself; do not lay that blame on anyone else.” Enjolras snaps, eyes flashing. “If a slave were to give their life for a just cause it would be a sacrifice worth no more and no less than if it were your life given.”

“You don’t know me,” Grantaire says, contrary, “how can you make pronouncements about my worth in the gods’ eyes?”

“I don’t have to know you to know your worth in the gods eyes,” Enjolras says with weight. “And it is not the gods’ gaze that concerns me when I speak of a person’s worth. The gods will have their way; it’s among men is where we must concern ourselves with justice or truth.”

“Such blasphemous thoughts will get you smote, without a question,” Grantaire says.

“Such blasphemous thoughts are what gained me my lady’s favour in the first place,” Enjolras says, wolfish. “Now leave me, if all you intend to do is bicker.”

Grantaire leaves, heart pounding, a prince ordered about in his own palace and finding himself without a complaint about it. _You are the only one of the two of us who calls yourself ugly_ bounces around in his thoughts like a marble in a bowl.

***

The harvest is soon upon them. Oeneus makes his annual sacrifices to the gods. Libations are made, feasts are laid, Grantaire drinks. All is good, but for the infatuation that’s crept into his heart. He begins spending his evenings at Aphrodite’s temple, and his nights in drink.

The fine oils he left in offering at the temple gleam in waning rays of sun. The image of golden hair in his mind’s eye almost distracts him from the way the bottle rattles.

Almost.

Grantaire has barely a second to dive behind the pillar of Aphrodite’s temple before a horrible screeching fills his ears above the screams of townspeople. The ground trembles beneath him as the noise passes further east, although Grantaire can’t be sure that some of the trembling isn’t him.

“What the _shit_,” he mutters to himself hysterically. He keeps a hand on the hilt of his sword as he steps into the open. Everyone else remains curled in fear, but for a figure walking steadily towards him from the end of the street. Grantaire draws his sword but sheathes it once he sees who it is, his heart sinking.

“Please don’t tell me that that’s from you,” he says.

“Is that how you greet a friend, _O prince_?” Éponine chides him.

“Don’t be a smartass, Ép, now’s not the godsdamn time for it. What the fuck was that?” he says, feeling his heartbeat in this throat. His palms are clammy; what he wouldn’t give for a drink. It’s hard to feel fear when you can’t even feel your feet.

Éponine looks at him, serious. “I need an audience with your father.”

_Fuck_, Grantaire thinks, _you’re fucking kidding me_. A priestess of Artemis needing an audience with the king can’t mean anything good.

***

The throne room is silent as a tomb after Éponine has spoken. The braziers are burning bright, enough to make Grantaire fidget with his firewood anxiously. He has a single thought: it is now abundantly clear why Enjolras is considered a sign of the gods’ impending wrath.

Éponine has relayed the news spoken to her by Artemis: King Oeneus has forgotten to honour the goddess in his annual sacrifice, so she has sent a boar of monstrous size and strength to lay waste to his kingdom. It is too late to make the sacrifice; Artemis’ pride has already taken the blow and no _post facto_ devotions will appease her until it is done properly next year.

The king turns to Grantaire. “You must organise a hunting party and kill it.”

Grantaire nods. “It will be done at once.” His fingers trace the grain of the wood he clutches in the folds of his chiton like they’ll find the solution there. 

He finds Bahorel and Joly training while Musichetta watches, perched on Bossuet’s lap. The sun has nearly set, so they’re sparring by the light of torches that an attendant must not have lit that long ago. Grantaire takes care to avoid them.

“R!” Musichetta calls to him. “Come give us a kiss!”

He kisses her cheek distractedly, accepts the hand she slips into his.

“Grantaire? What’s the matter, love?” she asks, gripping his hand with its clammy palms.

Grantaire swallows. Bossuet too is now frowning at him. “Spit it out, man.”

“There’s- ah.” He clears his throat. “Any of you fancy a hunt?”

“What’s this? A hunt?” Bahorel says from behind him. He and Joly have put down their spears and come over now that it’s beginning to be truly dark. “You know we’re always game for game.”

Joly snorts. “Was that meant to be clever?”

Bahorel is beginning to protest when Grantaire raises a hand and speaks over him. “It’s not just a hunt, is the thing. It’s, uh.” He blinks. “My father forgot to make a sacrifice to Artemis at the harvest so she sent a giant boar to destroy Calydon. It makes the ground shake when it runs and it screeches like the Eumenides in a rage.”

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta exchange a _look. _

“I need a drink in me before we talk about hunting giant city-destroying pigs,” Bahorel pronounces. Grantaire can’t help but agree.

***

The call goes out the very next morning: any hunter or fighter brave enough should come to the palace to join the hunting party. Men about whom Grantaire has only heard in legend arrive to Calydon: Jason, Aeson’s son; Peleus, from Phthia; Theseus of Athens; Nestor, king of sandy Pylos. A thrill goes up in Grantaire when he sees that gathered in the assembled crowd (although given a wide berth) is Enjolras, with his gleaming hair and stony face.

Grantaire is in the middle of giving his father’s orders when a voice cuts him off. “Why should we allow this cursed man to join our party, if it’s him who brought this monster here in the first place?”

He knows that they mean Enjolras. “This man has been brought here by Pallas Athena, who has neither quarrel nor alliance with Lady Artemis,” he says with more authority than he feels. He doesn’t dare look over at Enjolras. “We shouldn’t refuse a gift from the gods,” slips out before he can register that he’s just called Enjolras a _gift from the gods_.

“You don’t know whether he’s a blessing or a curse!” another voice shouts, and Grantaire tries to ignore the muttering from the rest of the men assembled.

“He’s the best hunter of any of us,” Bossuet says from beside him, “and if you want your body handed back to your mother in pieces then feel free to keep complaining about him!”

The grumbling slowly subdues, and Grantaire continues giving out orders. When the crowd has split off into parties to begin pursuit, he chances a glance at Enjolras, who has elected to go solo. There’s a look on his face that he can’t decode, but he doesn’t linger to figure it out when he sees that Enjolras is already looking at him.

The woods are dense and brambly where Grantaire is stalking with Bossuet, Joly, and Bahorel, and thorns keep catching on his tunic from where it peeks out from under his armour. The set of giant hoofprints leading ahead of him and the sounds of monstrous (and monstrously disgusting) grunting tell him that they’re on the right trail.

“Stay alert,” he whispers, adjusting his helmet. “We’re gonna get this thing.”

Slowly, they creep forwards until the wet snuffling sounds get so loud that Grantaire wants to clamp his hands over his ears.

“On me,” he says, before giving an almighty yell and charging ahead with his spear. He throws it at the boar’s flank as it comes into sight, but it bounces off without so much as clipping at some of the dense hair there. It screeches in rage and turns, one of its tusks painted bright red. Grantaire sees a mangled, armoured body laying on the ground behind it, and he loses all the courage coursing through him.

“Run,” he says, stumbling backwards into his three friends, and then louder, “Run! Run!” They crash through the brush, the angry screaming of the boar pushing them to run faster still, until suddenly the ground is no longer beneath their feet and they’re tumbling down a rocky cliffside, and they crash at its base.

All the breath gets knocked out of Grantaire on impact, and he breathes in the cloud of dust that he’s churned up. Hacking, he looks up and sees the boar groaning down at them before turning tail and retreating.

“Holy Hera,” Joly whimpers, ripping off his helmet. He’s bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow. “Holy Hera, queen of the gods. You didn’t even wound it.”

Grantaire’s heart stutters in fear. “Don’t remind me,” he says, hollow and shaken. Bossuet goes to wipe the blood out of Joly’s eye and pulls him into his chest. Bahorel is still laying on the ground, clutching at his hair and muttering to himself “What the fuck what the _fuck_ what the fuck.”

After they’ve caught their breath, they start the trek back to where they’ve left their horses. Grantaire has to go report to his father, and he just hopes that no one else gets hurt in the meantime. His heart clenches but he tries to be rational about it. The body he saw didn’t have golden hair; Enjolras is probably more fine than he is.

***

The hunt continues for another week, and then another. Report after report comes to the palace of towns razed to the ground with no survivors. Grantaire hasn’t slept since his first encounter with the boar, where he only managed to piss it off. Worse, he hasn’t had the chance to drink to distract himself: his mind has been occupied with Artemis’ gift and Enjolras. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are surely sick of hearing of the same two heartaches every time they see him. Sometimes he sees him striding through the grounds, looking like wrath incarnate. It makes Grantaire’s heart clench with that powerful longing every time. Only this morning, he saw him talking earnestly with a man with brown hair on the edge of the woods. Grantaire had blinked and the man was gone, Enjolras instead looking at an owl flying into the forest, but Grantaire chalks that up to lack of sleep.

He’s letting Joly rebandage a gash on his calf from the latest standoff, worrying at his firewood with one hand when he sees Enjolras stalking out from the woods, covered in blood and swordless. Grantaire jumps to his feet, ignoring Joly’s protests, and stumbles over to him. He manages to intercept him in the gardens.

Enjolras looks even worse up close. There’s blood soaking through the leather of his armour; some has even stuck his hair to his forehead. His cheeks are blooming and flushed where they are not bloodied, his eyes are ablaze, his chest is heaving. Grantaire notes an empty quiver slung over his shoulder.

Grantaire stares at him with wide eyes, panicked. “Are you- is this- what-?”

“I wounded it,” Enjolras says. His voice is tired but there’s a fierceness to it. Grantaire could swoon (but he won’t, because he’s crown prince and crown princes don’t do things like _swoon_). “This isn’t my blood.”

Grantaire’s heart stops and then kickstarts. “Where?” is what comes out of his mouth, although he’s not conscious of thinking it.

“Up by the mountains, to the west,” he says, clinical, “it has half a quiver between its ribs and my sword in its flank, it won’t get far.” He sounds almost sad about it, like its pain is also hurting him. Grantaire doesn’t know what to do with this added humanity.

“We’ll get you another sword,” Grantaire says. “And I’m going to go out with a party at first light to finish it, let it lose strength first.” His arm twitches as he reaches out to touch Enjolras before he thinks better of it and it swings back to his side, useless.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says solemnly. He has yet to show any emotion other than seriousness or annoyance, but Grantaire honestly can’t picture anything else. In the bright light of the midday sun, his eyes gleam almost as bright as his hair, and the shadows that his high cheekbones cast make him look more statuesque than human. He looks so perfectly created he might have been an automaton from the godly forge of Hephaistos Klytotekhnes. Grantaire itches to memorize his profile with his fingers. He makes a fist instead, so hard that he feels little half moons being indented into his palms.

“How did you do it?” he asks.

“This morning my lady told me where to find it, and where to aim. I’d like to think, however, that my arrows found their course by my own hand,” he says with a small, wry smile, and it takes Grantaire’s breath away. Enjolras is so beautiful that it hurts. It hurts doubly knowing that he has sworn himself unattached, and that even if that vow had not been made, he is too beautiful and righteous for Grantaire.

He’s going to be making a trip to Aphrodite’s temple tonight.

“Let me at least help you get cleaned up,” tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it. “You can’t walk around with this much blood on you, you’ll attract flies.”

Enjolras smiles in that wry way again, and it sets Grantaire’s heart thumping, thumping. He caused that smile, and if it’s a little pathetic to dwell on that, he’s past caring.

“There’s a stream where I’ve been making camp. I can tend to myself, but thank you for your offer,” he says, and his tone brokers enough finality that if Grantaire had more sense, he would decide, for once, to not push his luck. But his only sense of self-preservation, he thinks, has been bound up in the promise of fire.

“Would you let Hestia frown upon me for being an ungracious host?” Grantaire says, half sarcastic, half desperately wishing. “Call down upon this house yet _another_ curse?”

Enjolras grimaces at him, and he knows that he’s backed him into a corner. “If I let you, will you leave me in peace?”

Grantaire is worse than an insect that cringes when its stone is overturned, he is more pathetic than a dog that returns to its unwilling master. He will take any scrap of attention he can get. “You’ll see no more of me on this night,” he promises.

Enjolras grumbles but he nods, and suddenly Grantaire is faced with the horrifying (heartstopping) possibility that he will have to draw a bath for Enjolras and that they will be alone while it happens. Enjolras lets him lead the way into the palace, half a pace behind, although Grantaire somehow still feels like he’s the one being led. He is glad to have something to do with his hands that makes noise to fill the silence as he fills the bath. Enjolras objects before he can pour oils in the water.

“It is wasteful,” he says, “I require nothing else.” And then, “Thank you.” The steam from the water must be too hot, because Enjolras’ cheeks are flushed red.

“Of course,” Grantaire says too quickly. He hesitates for one heartbeat, two, and then he turns to leave as quickly as he can to prevent himself from doing something humiliating.

“Actually,” Enjolras says behind him, and Grantaire whirls around so fast that his head spins. “Could you help me make sure all the blood is off?”

When Grantaire doesn’t move, he adds in what Grantaire would call defensiveness if it weren’t such an absurd thought, “This boar is a creature of the wild, as am I. I do not wish to walk around with its blood on me.”

Grantaire nods, swallowing thickly and pretends to look for a cloth while Enjolras strips himself of his blood-stained armour and chiton and steps into the water. It’s deep enough, and the room is dark enough, that Grantaire can’t see anything below Enjolras’ heartline. He says a quick prayer of thanks for it.

Enjolras dunks his head under the water and re-emerges dripping and breathtaking. Grantaire feels arousal stirring in his belly at the sight and he hates himself for it. The drip, drip of water running off of Enjolras’ curling hair and the sounds of him breathing through his mouth fill the room. Enjolras swipes the hair off his face and smears red across his forehead.

The edge of the tub is wet when he perches on it, wielding his cloth. “Tip your head up,” Grantaire says thinly. He feels like he might pass out as he presses just the tips of his fingers underneath Enjolras’ jaw. Smooth golden skin starts to show as Grantaire wipes the blood from his face with more care than he would ever use for himself. He’s tense with the effort to avoid Enjolras’ gaze on him. His heart is beating so fast he fears it will bore a hole through his chest.

“You need only help with my face and head,” Enjolras says softly. It feels intimate in a way that makes Grantaire feel like he’s burning (which he tries his very best to avoid, although lately he’s not been very successful at it). “I can see everywhere else.”

Grantaire nods, not trusting his voice to be steady.

At least the blood has been wiped off his face and out of his hair. Grantaire meets Enjolras’ gaze for a second because he is a masochist. His pupils are wide, but the room is also dark. Grantaire doesn’t dwell on it, doesn’t let himself dwell on it.

“We’re leaving by the west gate at first light, we’ll have a sword and another quiver if you want to join us,” he offers tentatively, sure that Enjolras can hear the nerves in his voice.

“I won’t be late,” he says, before picking up the cloth that Grantaire set down on the edge of the bath. Grantaire doesn’t flee, but it’s a near thing.

The dawn finds Grantaire stumbling out of bed and out of the palace, tugging on the straps of his armour as he goes. He is (surprisingly) the first one at their rendezvous point of his normal party, but Enjolras has beaten him there. He stands with perfect posture beside an olive tree, speaking with the same man that Grantaire saw him with yesterday. They turn at the sound of his footsteps, and Enjolras nods in acknowledgement. His companion does nothing but look; it makes Grantaire feel strangely naked.

Suddenly he feels the urge to check that his sandals are tied. He looks down, sees that they’re just as they were two minutes ago and looks up to find that Enjolras stands alone, and is making his way over to him. Grantaire’s head swims.

“What- where?” he says.

“My lady does not like being observed in counsel,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire must have misheard him, because what the _fuck. _

“I’m- fairly certain that that was a very mortal man,” Grantaire says, pithy.

Enjolras throws him a look, a kind of easy condescension that strangely makes him even more attractive. Eros preserve him. “My lady won’t appear to a mortal in her divine form- it would kill them. She usually takes the form of a wise friend.”

“And that…” Grantaire says, reeling from the fact that he’s just witnessed Pallas Athena in the flesh- so to speak- and that he did in fact see her turn into a bird yesterday morning.

“Was my friend Combeferre, who studies in Athens,” he supplies. Grantaire finds it hard to believe that this god-chosen man who sleeps in the woods and wounds god-sent beasts has something as mundane as _friends_. (He ignores how desperately he wants to be included in that number.)

Joly and Bossuet appear moments later, dragging Bahorel between them. The hour is early enough that the looks they shoot Grantaire at Enjolras’ presence are softened by their bleariness. They set off in good time, still early enough that the sun has yet to fully rise. Grantaire makes the mistake of glancing at Enjolras at one point, and sees the crowning sun light up the strong bones of his face, sees the shadows in between rays that curve along his strong frame, like Apollo bringing rosy-fingered Dawn into the world behind him. His tongue feels too big for his mouth. He is seized by the terrifying thought that if Enjolras were to find himself in mortal peril today, he would throw his body in front of him. He doesn’t know where this devotion comes from; maybe as a worshipper of the mother of love and beauty he is drawn to lovely and beautiful things.

_Let no harm come to him on this day,_ Grantaire prays to Aphrodite Ourania. _Or any day, for that matter. _

They reach the base of the mountains as the sun finally fully crests. Sure enough, they spot a crimson trail leading through trampled brush. They dismount and creep along, Enjolras taking point naturally and no one offering any protestations. Bossuet does throw a look to Grantaire, but the expression on his face must answer whatever question he has.

Grantaire had thought that waiting to track it down after Enjolras had wounded it would let it bleed out more and make the task of finally killing it easier, but if anything, it just seems to have let it get angrier. He’s never heard such angry screeching in his life. The trees lie in broken heaps as they move on, leaves tangled with long, coarse hairs. All of a sudden, Enjolras signals to pause. The noises have stopped.

“On your left!” Joly screams at Enjolras, who is directly in the boar’s path as it comes charging, foaming at the mouth. Grantaire does not even think; he hefts his spear and throws as hard as he can. It lodges home directly where its heart should be and the boar crashes to the earth, inches from where Enjolras stands, bow half raised. He turns to look at Grantaire, face bloodless. Grantaire stares back, arm still raised.

“Is it dead?” Joly asks.

Enjolras slowly draws his gaze away from Grantaire, flush returning to his face, and prods the boar’s heavy head with the edge of his bow. “Yes.” He looks sad.

Grantaire lets out his breath heavily. Whatever’s left in his lungs is knocked out by Bahorel’s thump on the back. “R, you lucky bastard, you did it!”

Grantaire can’t find his voice. He keeps staring at his spear embedded in its chest, at the stumps of arrows sticking out on its other side. He wonders how deep their points go, whether they met in the middle.

***

“You did what?” his mother hisses. Her maids scatter at a wave of her hand, closing the door behind them.

Grantaire clenches his jaw, hides his fists in the folds of his chiton. The crown upon his head feels heavier than it should. “I intend to give Enjolras the boar’s hide.” He likes saying Enjolras’ name, even if it’s to his mother. It fills his mouth, makes him feel like he has the sun under his tongue.

“_Why _would you do such a thing,” she says, rearing her hand back to slap him. He cringes despite himself and her hand comes down to rest at her side. He doesn’t like the expression on her face; she never meant to dirty her hands; she only wanted to assert that she has the upper hand. It’s slightly too literal for Grantaire’s taste. 

“We wouldn’t have been able to take it down if he hadn’t wounded it first,” he says staunchly, facing his sandals. He wriggles his toes like he did as a child.

Althaea, prone to the dramatics which he unfortunately inherited, sweeps across the room, her shawls trailing after her. “That you would grant this spoil to the cursed man who brought its destruction down upon us is a stain upon this house and an insult against me,” she wails. “Have the Moirai not punished me enough? The very son whose life would have ended in fire if not for my hand now disgraces me.”

He tries not to roll his eyes. It would only cause more wailing on his mother’s part, and the sooner he can get away the better. “Enjolras didn’t bring the boar anymore than Deineira did,” Grantaire says, knowing that his mother won’t speak a word against his sister. “If anything, the gods sent him to help us. If any of us deserves that pelt, he does.”

His mothers turns her back to him, and he knows he’s won this argument. He mutters a quick, “my lady,” before he hurries from the room.

When he returns to his chambers, he sees that the pelt has been cleaned and prepared. He hefts it over his shoulder and the weight makes him grunt. Already dreading carrying it all the way to the woods, he heaves himself out.

Once he reaches the first wild trees, he hefts the pelt to the ground with a huff and catches his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. He looks up to see Enjolras lounging like a panther in a tree, all long legs and golden skin, watching him.

“This is yours,” Grantaire says, all eloquence flying out of his brain at the sight before him.

Enjolras just raises an eyebrow.

Grantaire feels a flush rising through him. He needs to explain himself more, but he knows he’s about to start babbling. “I know you didn’t land the final blow but if you hadn’t landed the first Zeus knows that we wouldn’t have been able to even get close to it, and that technically the spoil is mine but a man like me doesn’t have much use for a pelt unless he can use it to buy or make wine or weapons, and-”

Grantaire cuts himself off as Enjolras slips from the tree and lands gracefully on his feet. All of Grantaire’s usually barbed wit has abandoned him and left him uncomfortably honest and vulnerable.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says simply, and Grantaire’s head snaps to look at him. It’s the first time Enjolras has said his name, and it’s _doing things_ to his chest. “I can’t accept this.”

Grantaire doesn’t deflate. Instead, he feels the familiar rise of sarcasm in him. “Oh, don’t _tell_ me that this isn’t about you not wanting to accept a gift from a cynical wretch with no beliefs beyond drink,” he sneers, because this is familiar, and guarded, and he feels equally relieved and disappointed at the angry frown that settles on Enjolras’ brow.

“_How many times do I have to tell you-_” Enjolras hisses.

“Yes, yes, all men’s lives are the same, it’s been mentioned,” Grantaire cuts in.

“_Not _the same, _equal value_-” Enjolras snaps.

“But I do wonder what the point of that belief is when we’re all judged in the eyes of the gods anyway,” Grantaire continues.

“But it remains a truth that men have a responsibility to judge each other fairly, according to their merits and abilities!” Enjolras yells over him.

“So a slave who grows and harvests the grapes deserves to reap the rewards of their wine more than the master who pours it?” Grantaire throws back at him, sarcastic.

“Of course, why would you ask such an-” Enjolras stops mid-sentence, seeming incredibly frustrated.

Grantaire smirks at him. “I’m not insinuating that you’re comparable to a slave or I your master, of course,” - Grantaire represses the image that sentence conjures up- “but you’ll agree with me that you have merited this hide, then?”

Enjolras looks less angry and more mystified now, as if he can’t believe that he’s been beaten. “I suppose this means I have to take this now, or else I’m a hypocrite, doesn’t it?”

Grantaire tries not to indulge in the self-pity that’s brimming in his throat. “Surely it’s not such a chore as that.”

“No! No, that’s not what I meant,” Enjolras says, surprisingly earnest. “I…thank you. This is truly a kindness I’ll remember.”

Grantaire swallows. “No need for all that, it’s yours anyway.”

Enjolras nods at him, but there’s a small smile playing at his lips, and Grantaire counts that as a victory equal to defeating Artemis’ beast.

***

Grantaire nearly pisses himself when he wakes up the next morning and sees the man with brown hair and a stern expression staring down at him. Combeferre, he remembers his name is- no, _not_ Combeferre, Grantaire reminds himself, _Pallas Athena, wielder of the aegis_.

He scrambles to his feet, and collecting his wits, throws himself to his knees just as quickly. He feels a tremble beginning in his arms that he clenches down on. It’s not like she can’t tell anyway.

“Grantaire, son of Oeneus and Althaea, crown prince of Calydon, slayer of Artemis’ monstrous boar,” she says. Grantaire has never had such a bizarre _good morning_ in his life. He would pray that he doesn’t say anything stupid, but that prayer would go straight to her.

The goddess of wisdom. In his bedchamber. The sun hasn’t even reached its zenith and Grantaire needs a drink desperately.

“My- my lady,” he says, looking at the floor.

“You have done a noble thing in giving away the Calydonian boar’s hide,” she says. “For this you have my attention.”

“Thank you?” he says, despite himself. He curses himself and hopes she won’t set fire to his lifeline on the spot.

“You have my attention, but not my favour,” the goddess says, at once more and less stern than before. “Do not entertain any ideas that Enjolras will break his oath.”

Grantaire’s heart nearly stops beating. “My lady?” he asks, knowing she can hear the fear that’s crept into his voice.

“I know what lies in your heart, Grantaire, and I have heard the prayers you make to the lady Aphrodite. I will not interfere in the affairs of other gods, but do not attempt to test my patience.”

“It- it is understood, my lady,” he says.

She is silent long enough for Grantaire to look up, but in a gust of wind suddenly he’s alone. He sinks to fully lie prone on the floor, stunned.

He’s still lying there when he hears footsteps hurrying towards him. He expects Bahorel, or Bossuet-and-Joly-and-Musichetta, or even Feuilly. Not Enjolras, golden hair dishevelled and uncharacteristic concern on his face. His brow clenches further when he sees Grantaire on the floor, but he breathes a sigh of relief when Grantaire blinks at him, dumbfounded.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Enjolras says, leaning against the entryway and tipping his head back to expose the long column of his neck. “I thought she’d killed you.”

“What?” Grantaire croaks, the sight of Enjolras here galvanising enough that he sits up and clenches his hands to regain feeling in his fingers.

“She- she came to talk to me and she mentioned she’d seen you and I thought- well, I thought-” Enjolras pants, still out of breath from apparently running (running?) from the woods.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Grantaire says, still feeling like the world’s slipped away from under his feet. “Why would you think she’d have killed me?”

“She’s done it before,” Enjolras says. “To suitors.” As soon as he’s said it colour begins to fill his cheeks. “Not that I’m suggesting you are. A suitor, I mean.”

Grantaire’s heart speeds up. He feels like he’s about to burst into flame (which would be _really _bad) when he says, “No, of course not.” And then, because the moment feels too naked, he adds, “Why would I be? Being a suitor presupposes that I have something of value to offer, and seeing as neither title nor wealth please you, I would have to rely on my sour wit and a pig’s skin.”

Enjolras shoots him a scathing look before sweeping away. Grantaire feels strangely empty. He can’t help feeling like he’s missed something, but he should expect that from an encounter with the goddess of wisdom and her favourite mortal.

His day continues much more normally after this: he stands at his father’s side at court, he trains with Bahorel, he does some of his more tedious princely duties. In the evening, he enters the town to pay his respects at Aphrodite’s temple, carrying a fine silk scarf.

He places it at the foot of her statue and kneels. _I offer you this in gratitude for his life, _Grantaire prays. _I offer you all the time I have spent thinking of him. Please don’t let Athena kill me,_ he adds.

The sun is again setting when he sets out to Artemis’ temple, her power rising as her brother’s sets. He’s too afraid to enter (he _has_ just killed her monster and he’s not sure that she’s too fond of him at the moment) but he does know that if he lurks outside then he’ll be sure to see Éponine waiting for him.

Sure enough, as he rounds the corner he sees her standing half in shadow, turned towards him.

“Figured I’d be seeing you here, asshole,” she says, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

“I’m nothing if not predictable,” he says grinning.

“So you killed it?” she asks, more subdued. There are shadows under her eyes and her dark hair is more tangled than usual.

“Not without difficulty, I’ll tell you that,” Grantaire says, before he notices her expression. “Everything good, Ép?” He knows she’s not open with anyone at the best of times, but he asks anyway. If she bites his head off for it, it still won’t be the scariest thing that’s happened to him today.

She blinks tiredly, but to his great surprise she answers. “I know it killed people, but it’s still sad to see my lady’s beasts killed.” Her words remind him of how Enjolras had looked when the boar died. _Creatures of the wild_, he thinks to himself. He’s so caught up in his thoughts for a moment that he nearly misses what Éponine mumbles after.

“What was that, O servant of the moon?” he asks.

Éponine hides her face in her hands and speaks through her fingers. Her voice comes out muffled. “I said, ‘Marius is back in Aetolia.’”

Grantaire freezes. “Ah, shit, Ép.”

Éponine snorts. “You’ve fucking got that right.” She drags a hand through her hair; it sticks up at the back. The evening is beginning to cool from the waning warmth of the day.

“_Shit_,” Grantaire says again, because Marius nearly tore apart Éponine’s life last time he was here. He was why she’d become a priestess of the virgin goddess in the first place. “What the hell’s he doing here, Ép?”

“They’re travelling from his grandfather’s home in Ambracia to see Cosette’s father in Corinth,” she says, spitting out every word with bitterness. “Azelma sent the news yesterday; they’re going to arrive in Calydon two days from now.”

“So they’re going to be staying at the palace,” Grantaire pieces together, knowing that Marius is from a noble family. They might be distantly related, he’s not terribly sure and he’s not sure he cares much either. “I can have him poisoned if that would cheer you up,” he offers, grinning.

Pain blooms in his shoulder where Éponine punches him. “Asshole,” she mutters darkly. “Come on, I want to get piss drunk tonight. Artemis won’t begrudge me this.”

“That’s not a no,” Grantaire says, because he’s a piece of shit.

“R!” she yells, and Grantaire laughs before linking her arm with his and dragging her off in search of undiluted wine.

***

When Grantaire finally stumbles back towards the palace, one of his sandals half untied, the night is pitch black. He’s had more to drink than he normally does; when Éponine has her mind set to something she doesn’t do it by halves. His walk slurs as much as his speech was beginning to when he finally dumped her at the temple, slumped over and snoring against a pillar. Grantaire would know the palace grounds with his eyes closed, but he doesn’t have the skill to navigate it in the dark _and _having drunk enough to probably have gained the attention of Dionysus. Which is probably why he ends up stumbling into the woods beside the palace and tripping over something hairy and long on the forest floor.

“Shit,” Grantaire says, spitting out dirt. He rolls onto his back, eyes slowly adjusting to the moonlit darkness, and rakes his hands over his face. A figure is looming over him when he reopens his eyes.

“Who are you? Declare yourself!” he cries from the ground, squinting to try to get the figure’s face into focus. Everything is blurry from this angle.

“Have we not been through this exact charade before?” the figure answers him authoritatively, and Grantaire recognises him.

“Enjolras!” he says, a wide grin breaking over his face. “What a blessing my fair lady Aphrodite has seen fit to bestow upon me!”

“Are you drunk, Grantaire?” he says, disgust heavy upon his voice.

“On the joys of life, perhaps! Drunk on the beauty of the world, drunk on the company of friends, drunk on thoughts of mortality!” Grantaire intones, louder than he means to be. “Drunk to remember, drunk to forget! To hell with this mortal life and its pains, to hell with this cursed kindling, to hell with the Moirai themselves!”

“_Shut up_,” Enjolras hisses, kneeling quickly to clamp a hand down over his mouth. Grantaire looks up into his eyes, breath shuddering against the warm callouses on his palm. The moonlight turns his golden hair silver, makes him look even more unearthly. “Shut up you drunken fool, do you want the Moirai to cast down a curse upon you?”

Grantaire makes a noise against his palm and Enjolras snatches his hand back like he’s been burned. Grantaire snorts at the thought of fire coming from him before he says, “O you who might be Apollo incarnate, what a stupid thing to worry about. I’m _already _cursed by the Moirai.” He closes his eyes and smiles contentedly. The world begins to spin but he finds it thrilling rather than nauseating; the world has finally caught up to his heart.

“What do you mean?” Enjolras says sharply. “Do you insinuate that I’m the curse you speak of?”

Grantaire frowns and opens his eyes to see that Enjolras’ brow is pinched in what could be either hurt or frustration. Hurt doesn’t make sense, Grantaire thinks to himself, so frustration it is.

“Why would I have given you the hide of Artemis’ boar if I thought you a curse?” Grantaire says. “Where is it, anyway? I spilled my own blood for that, you’d better not have done anything with it.”

Enjolras scowls at him. “You’re lying on it. You might have done more damage to it than I.”

“Ah,” Grantaire says, “this explains why the ground feels like the back of a giant animal.” He runs his fingers over the coarse hair, trying to tether himself.

“What’s this curse you spoke of?” Enjolras says, pressing him. He leans over Grantaire’s face to make him catch his eye, and he’s utterly transfixed. “You said that you were already cursed by the Moirai- what do you mean?”

Grantaire’s regaining enough sobriety to realise that this isn’t a question he should answer honestly. This isn’t a conversation he should have started at all. He’s going to yell at Éponine in the morning for getting him this drunk, except he’s not, because she’s going to be a mess until Marius and Cosette leave, and she needs friends.

“I’m not going to answer that,” Grantaire says thickly, crossing his arms over his stomach.

“Why not?” Enjolras demands. “Why bring it up, then?”

“Can anyone explain the ramblings of a drunken man?” Grantaire says, turning away. He knows that if Enjolras keeps looking at him like that he’s going to tell the truth.

“You can when it’s your own drunken rambling!” he exclaims.

“Why are you insisting on this? Does it frustrate you that I have knowledge you don’t, O favourite of Wisdom?” Grantaire needles him.

“Don’t be a fool,” he says coldly, and then much quieter, “I have the favour of a goddess, I could help you break it.”

Grantaire laughs without humour and turns to finally look Enjolras in the eye. He looks more human than he has before. “There is no cure for this curse, there is nothing to break but me.”

“You don’t know that,” Enjolras insists. “Haven’t I proven myself trustworthy?” He looks down at Grantaire beseechingly, the moonlight forming a halo from the hairs that fly away from his curls, looks at Grantaire like he actually wants to help him. A painful clench goes through his chest. He is helpless in the face of this man’s will.

He sighs and looks up at the treetops. He can’t bear to look at Enjolras’ expression when he tells it. “My life will end when a piece of firewood the size of my hand burns down. The Moirai appeared to my mother when I was newly born and informed her of this, and she snatched it out of the fire. I keep it with me at all times; if it burns, I burn with it.”

They are both silent for a stretch of time, but whether it’s long or short Grantaire can’t say. The spinning has finally stopped and now he’s left with the taste of stale wine on his tongue.

“I will ask my lady for guidance,” Enjolras finally says, getting to his feet. A cold panic washes over Grantaire after a thought occurs to him and he scrambles to his feet, swaying to one side before he balances himself.

“No! You can’t tell her anything, please don’t tell her anything,” Grantaire begs, cursing himself for not thinking of this sooner.

“Why? A decree by the Moirai cannot be broken without divine interference,” Enjolras says, frowning thoughtfully.

“No, you- you don’t understand, she’ll- it’s a _weakness_, it’s a weakness and she’ll use it against me-” Grantaire stops. He already knows what Enjolras is going to say.

“Use it against you? You’re only in any real danger if you’re…actually…a…suitor,” he says, his sentence slowing towards the end like gravity finally catching up with a spinning top. “Grantaire?”

“I have to go,” Grantaire chokes out, and stumbles back to the palace as fast as he can, wondering how he could have missed the sight of the burning braziers.

***

Grantaire spends as much of the week as he can sequestered in his chambers, alternating between drinking, praying to Pandemos for mercy, and studying his lump of firewood. The second day, he’s forced to greet Marius and Cosette and their attendants when they arrive. He tries to balance being a gracious host and a loyal friend to Éponine, and it ends up being easier than he predicted since Cosette is so easy to like with her bright kindness and Marius so easy to dislike with his flightiness and clueless nature. At the very least, they’re only staying for six nights.

As the end of the fifth day approaches, he has tired himself of drink and lays face up on his bed, trying to stop his itching fingers from rubbing over the wood. If he keeps fidgeting with it while he’s anxious, soon there will no longer be any wood left. The next day he has grown so tired of his chambers that he brings out his drawing supplies in favour of drink, but he’s too much of a coward to leave in case he runs into that golden figure that haunts his dreams. He sketches fragments of things: hands, shoulders, noses, curling hair. He tells himself that they do not belong to anyone in particular.

Finally, it’s Bahorel who snaps at the week mark and drags him outside. The day is cloudy, thankfully, and the air hangs heavy with the scent coming rain.

“We’re boxing, and you’re not going to be a whiny bitch about it,” Bahorel barks at him, shoving him into the ring.

“You wound me, old friend,” Grantaire grouses at him, but he does as he asks and strips off his chiton, leaving his kindling wrapped in it before dumping it on the ground. Bahorel doesn’t say anything, just swings at the side of his head with a grim expression.

They spar until they’re both panting, sweat dripping into their eyes. Grantaire squats with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“I’m not going to ask about this week,” Bahorel says, wiping his brow. “But don’t do it again, alright?”

“Do my best, although the value of that seems to be going down these days,” Grantaire says, grateful that Bahorel isn’t prying. Were it any of his other friends, except maybe Feuilly, they would have climbed between his teeth to pry answers out of him.

“Doesn’t it tire you to be so convictionless all the time?” a voice asks behind him. He looks at Bahorel in a panic, but he just raises his eyebrows at Grantaire. He has no cause for concern with Enjolras- he’s proven himself a useful ally to Bahorel.

“It only becomes tiresome when no one with conviction remains,” he says in an attempt at nonchalance. He cranes to look over his shoulder and sees Enjolras standing behind him, dressed for once not in armour but a white chiton. His foot nudges against the pile of Grantaire’s clothes, and he knows that it’s on purpose; he knows that Enjolras has probably guessed that somewhere beneath that fabric is his only tether to this mortal earth. It sends a powerful shiver through him.

“I wondered if I might speak with you,” Enjolras says to Grantaire after nodding at Bahorel in greeting. “In private. Will you come with me?”

Grantaire feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. He’s a coward backed into a corner; he wants to say no and retreat, but he doesn’t have the heart to say it. “Whatever for, Wisdom’s favourite?” he says, wanting too much to say Enjolras’ name to do it. “Fine, yes,” he concedes when Enjolras scowls at him.

“Should I wait for you?” Bahorel asks him, looking between them curiously.

Grantaire opens his mouth to say, _yes, please, I need an escape option_ when he’s cut of by Enjolras saying firmly, “No.”

Bahorel nods like it’s a reasonable request and picks up his clothes to redress. He gives Grantaire a pointed look before he tugs his tunic over his head, and Grantaire has no choice but to kneel at Enjolras’ feet to pick up his chiton, careful not to let the wood fall out. He dresses quickly and rises with colour blooming in his cheeks. Bahorel raises a hand; Grantaire mouths to him _you’re dead to me_ with his back turned to Enjolras.

“Grantaire? Are you ready to go?” Enjolras asks him, verging on impatient.

Grantaire turns to him and gestures, palms up. “Lead on.”

Enjolras leads him past the training fields and into the gardens in silence. Grantaire’s heart is beating so fast that he’s worried it will fly up into his throat and choke him. He prays to Aphrodite for the ground to open up and swallow him whole, but somehow he doubts that she’ll indulge this wish.

They pass along Grantaire’s usual path until Enjolras turns into an alcove. He moves with such purpose that it makes Grantaire feel smaller and bigger at the same time. He follows.

Enjolras has stopped and waits for Grantaire to make eye contact with him before he speaks. There’s something in his expression that Grantaire can’t place. He traces over the slopes and sharp edges of his shoulders and face with his eyes, comparing them to the sketches he’s done. He could look and look and still not have his fill.

“I wanted to…apologise if I forced you into revealing your curse to me,” Enjolras begins, and Grantaire feels shock rip through his chest. This isn’t what he thought Enjolras wanted to speak with him about; he was expecting more of a _vile wretch, if you ever approach me again I will shoot you through the heart if my patron goddess doesn’t kill you first_.

“Don’t worry about it,” Grantaire tells him, “it’s not as though you gained any more power over me.” And it’s true, as Grantaire has been reflecting (moping) about all week: he feels no sense of dread from Enjolras himself knowing about the Moirai’s claim on him. He would have followed Enjolras mortal peril of his own volition before. It’s only Athena’s threat that worries him, but that only holds any real danger if he intends to seriously court Enjolras. Which he hasn’t dreamt of doing: there is a natural order of things, and it is one that does not allow ugly men like Grantaire to end up with beautiful ones like Enjolras.

“I do not want any power over you at all,” Enjolras says, unhappy. “It’s not my wish to hold power _over_ any other man.”

“Is this all you wished to speak with me about?” Grantaire says, knowing he’s being beyond infuriating. “I would be delighted to engage in this same argument again, I’m sure that my lack of belief will only have strengthened since our last.”

“Grantaire, please!” Enjolras says, verging on a shout. He looks like he’s trying to keep his head on, which makes Grantaire feel like an insect crawling blindly in the mud. He wishes not for the first time that he were not so prone to argument, that he could be the pleasant and stately son his mother wants him to be. “Please, I didn’t ask you here to argue.”

When Grantaire makes no move to rebut, he continues. He’s wringing his hands slightly, long fingers hypnotising. “I also wanted to ask you for another truth, but this is knowledge I only want if it is given willingly.” He pauses and looks at him, his voice more sure than Grantaire has ever been in his life. “Why did you leave?”

Grantaire doesn’t have to ask him to explain what he means. “Surely the fact that I left is confirmation enough,” he says bitterly.

“This isn’t an answer, Grantaire,” Enjolras insists. “If you’re willing to answer it must be done properly.”

“Ugly men like me do not end up with beautiful ones like you, Enjolras!” he snarls, feeling the ugliness in his heart rear its head. “Men sworn unmarried in devotion to Wisdom do not end up with wretched men who have lost their good sense to wine!” He feels vile, he feels worthless. He feels hopeless. He huffs an angry breath, although it’s anger at himself for ever allowing himself to go so far down this path, like he ever had a choice.

_Why do you torture me so?_ he asks Aphrodite. She does not answer.

“I left because I have loved you since the moment I saw you, and I could not bear for you to know the truth: that I am too pathetic to even think of calling myself your suitor, not for fear of Athena’s wrath but from fear of your repulsion. There is your answer,” he spits, and he turns to leave. His heart is thundering in his ears; he feels an emptiness that wine will not fill but that he will try to fill with it anyway.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says softly, much closer than he was before. He reaches out to hold Grantaire’s elbow; the contact feels so good that Grantaire can’t bring himself to wrench himself away. His skin has never felt so much like skin; it _burns_ in a new way, and yet this new burn still scares him. He pauses, but does not turn.

“Do you remember what you said to me after I beat you in the pankration,” he says in that same soft voice, and Grantaire’s gut churns.

“Why would you bring up another one of my defeats at your hand? If all you want to do is insult me then I’ll have to ask you to wait until I’m too drunk to hear it,” Grantaire bites out, but it’s without energy.

“No, damn it all, that’s not- Grantaire, please. Would you humour me?”

He sighs. He can’t refuse Enjolras anything, not even his pride. “Yes, I remember.” The leaves on the hedge in front of him sway like they’re in the middle of a dance.

“You said to me, ‘Most men wouldn’t have beaten me,’ and I said to you, ‘I am not most men.’”

“I said I remember this, Enjolras, I don’t see to what end you’re doing this.”

“But the reverse is also true,” Enjolras says, speaking so softly that Grantaire has to concentrate to hear him. “My lady told me once that there is symmetry in truth, and she was right, as she always is. Now I will say to you: most men wouldn’t have beaten me. And I will also say this: you are not most men.”

Grantaire feels numbness spreading up from his extremities. He doesn’t protest when Enjolras tugs him to face him. He sees upon Enjolras’ immaculate face an expression far more terrifying than his wrath: tenderness.

“What?” Grantaire says.

“I have not been able to master my thoughts since you gave me the boar’s hide,” Enjolras says, looking steadfast at Grantaire. He feels every word like a physical thing. “I couldn’t reconcile the contrariness you have shown me with the courage and generosity you’ve acted with. And now I have come to my answer, which proves to me that you are not most men: you are the only person who has ever made me regret my oath.”

Grantaire doesn’t process what he’s saying until he blinks a few times and the cogs in his head start turning again. He opens his mouth. Closes it. All the tension that’s been building in his limbs has flooded out.

“You’ve trusted me with your life, you’ve argued with me like no one has dared to, you’ve given me a spoil of war beyond value simply because you thought it was the just thing to do- you say that you are without conviction but I don’t think that’s true.” Enjolras has tugged him an inch closer, his hand never getting tighter nor looser on his elbow. His pulse spreads in electric waves from the point where their skin touches.

“You’re right,” Grantaire says, hoarse. “I believe in you.”

They’re at a stalemate for one breath, two, until Enjolras’ hand tightens on his elbow. It’s all it takes for Grantaire to lose what’s left of his self-control. He slips a hand behind Enjolras’ ear, and kisses him.

Enjolras’ hand slides from his elbow to the small of his back, the slight breeze wafts the scent of jasmine over them, he tilts his chin up to press further into Enjolras’ space. He is kissing Enjolras.

Enjolras, who has never kissed anyone before but shows great proficiency at following Grantaire’s lead. Enjolras, who believes all men’s lives have equal value. Enjolras, whom Grantaire thought was a god the first time he set eyes on him.

Enjolras, who has sworn never to marry to show his devotion to his patron Pallas Athena.

Grantaire relinquishes his hold and steps back, fighting not to press his hand to his mouth. Enjolras’s eyes open slowly and he smiles. He still manages to look serious. Grantaire feels the ugly creature in his chest stirring. _Ugly men like me do not end up with beautiful men like you._

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, his smile slipping like rain off a gabled roof. “Is everything alright?”

Grantaire’s chest feels too thin, too tight. He has to go. The lump of firewood hidden in his chiton is equal to the weight of the heavens, and he is no Atlas.

“I have to-” he begins, but Enjolras grabs him by the waist and looks at him fiercely. Grantaire’s heart can’t take this.

“If you say that you have to go, I am going to do something I’ll regret. Please don’t,” he says, but Grantaire can still feel panic clawing its way up his throat.

“She- she’ll- and you! You deserve-”

“Don’t tell me what do I or do not deserve, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, not ungently. “As for my lady, we’ll think of something. It won’t be the first time that we’ve confronted a goddess’ wrath.”

“You’ll hate me once you really know me,” Grantaire says, hating himself for saying anything, for ruining everything. _Ugly men like me do not end up with beautiful men like you_. His heart is filled with an ache so terrible that his head swims with it.

“Who do you think that is? A coward? A cynic?” Enjolras demands, grip unchanged. He can see Grantaire’s answer in his face. “No, Grantaire, _listen to me_, listen to me and then if you still do not want this, tell me to go and I will. But please listen to me.”

He waits until Grantaire nods, choking on his own breath. “You have been brave in the face of death, and you have not shied from an opponent in all the time that I have been in Calydon. It’s true that you’re cynical but your cynicism can’t compare to your sharp wit.” Enjolras smiles at him. Grantaire is still unsure whether or not Enjolras is Apollo in disguise; he might be looking at the sun. “It’s true that I don’t really know you, nor you me, but I know enough to want to know more.”

Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut. Enjolras’s tone hides thinly veiled frustration, and this is what tells Grantaire that he is being honest. That he believes everything he says.

“Tell me, Grantaire,” Enjolras says to him. “Tell me to leave and I will. Tell me to stay and I will.”

“Stay,” he finds himself staying, heart disbelieving head. “Stay.”

Enjolras kisses him again. He struggles against the smile fighting its way across his mouth- it’s too hard to keep kissing like that, but Grantaire doesn’t mind it so much.

When they part, this time for breath, Grantaire leans his forehead against Enjolras’ collarbone. The skin there is smooth; he can feel the flex of muscle above and below. “Will you make me a concession?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, sure.

“Don’t make any plans to break your oath and marry until _I’m_ sure that I’m not just acting out of foolish hope,” Grantaire says. He hears Enjolras open his mouth to rebut when he adds, “Please. I don’t want you to resent me.”

He looks up at Enjolras and sees from the set of his jaw that he wants to argue the point. But he’s given his word, so he just sighs and presses a kiss to Grantaire’s temple. He can’t believe his senses; he’s never felt so tethered to this mortal earth in his life.

“Fine,” Enjolras concedes, golden and good.

“Let’s keep getting to know each other, then,” Grantaire grins, wicked, crowding into his space and kissing him again. They kiss and they kiss and they kiss until Grantaire feels his pulse everywhere and Enjolras’s lips are flushed bright red like a berry in his mouth. He’s pulled away for breath but Grantaire doesn’t let him get far; he chases his pulse down his neck, careful not to mark him. He doesn’t think he could bare to mar that alabaster column just now. Not now that’s it’s offered to him. He wants to press it into his memory like this before he leaves his mark.

“Come to bed with me,” Grantaire says then, without preamble. He has never been a man of restraint. He has also never been a man of faith; if Enjolras has made this decision, he’s going to take his chance before he changes his mind. Enjolras starts; the hand on his waist clenches. “Your oath speaks only of marriage, not a marriage bed, nor the acts that happen in one. Besides,” he adds, because sex, like drink or argument, is something that Grantaire is familiar with, “it’s a great injustice to me to see your form and never get to touch or taste.”

“But my lady will be displeased.” Enjolras says, hands spreading over Grantaire’s shoulder blades. “And I don’t want to risk your peace if she doesn’t agree with this technicality.” His thumbs trace a path back and forth over the skin of Grantaire’s back, and he feels warmth spill over him like a hot bath.

Grantaire frowns until an idea comes to him. “Meet me here at sunset? I’m going to try to appeal to someone’s better nature.”

A question forms on Enjolras’ face, but he lets it rest. “Alright.” And then he pulls Grantaire back into him.

***

The lamps in Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s chambers are all shoved into corners and far from any drapings, which Grantaire appreciates more than he can put into words. They’re not yet needed; soft winter sunlight is streaming through sheer white curtains, and he intends to be elsewhere at sunset. His head rests in Musichetta’s lap as she combs through his hair with her fingers.

“What have you gotten yourself into, love?” Musichetta asks him. Her voice is soothing like cool water on a burn.

Grantaire turns his face into the swell of her leg. “I don’t know,” he groans. “I think I hallucinated the whole thing. It’s the only explanation for it.”

Musichetta hums, neither agreeing nor denying with him. “I don’t know how you, already with a curse upon your head, end up running around trying to outsmart the goddess of wisdom.”

“But you’ll still help me? And Joly and Bossuet?” Grantaire asks, twisting his neck to look up at her. The pearls in her earrings rest stark against her black hair. “She listens to lovers in prayer, and there’s power in threes. Three Moirai, three Eumenides. Three servings of wine to feel Dionysus’ presence.”

Musichetta laughs. “Yes, we’ll help, R. You said yourself that she won’t defy another god’s will.”

“May the Isles of the Blest open their gates to you!” Grantaire exclaims, pressing a kiss to her knee. 

She shoves him off of her bed with a laugh. Grantaire rolls off gracefully and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m going to go find Joly and Bossuet, we’ll have it done before sunset,” she says. When he’s reached the door, she stops him with his name. “I’m happy for you.” Her smile is soft and warm, and reaches her eyes.

Grantaire smiles in return and for once does not ornament his words in facetiousness. “Thank you, Chetta.”

The afternoon air is cold enough that Grantaire hurries to the temple. The sunlight today is more grey than gold, but some of the clouds have cleared. When he reaches the foot of Aphrodite’s statue, he kneels and clasps his hands in front of him.

_My lady Pandemos, _he prays, _this plea is for your divine ears alone. _

The brazier to his right goes out in a gust of wind, and one of Aphrodite’s sacred flowers that was perched in a dip of her statue falls in front of him. Grantaire looks down at the rose in wonder and takes it as a sign that she’s acknowledged him. He feels so dreadfully, frightfully mortal.

“I…” he begins before trailing off. He doesn’t know how to put this; he doesn’t want to accidentally offend her. “Please hide us from the eyes of the other gods tonight. Please. I offer you all the love that I will show to him. I will sacrifice a white bull if that does not suffice.”

Grantaire stays there, kneeling and begging, until he can feel every bone in his legs. He startles when he feels a tap on his shoulder. His eyes snap onto the priestess of Aphrodite standing behind him, looking at him curiously.

“The goddess says to be ready for him at sunset. She will send a white dove if what you’ve asked for has been done.”

Grantaire bolts to his feet. “Thank you,” he says, clasping her hand before he runs to find Joly-and-Bossuet-and-Musichetta.

The three of them are sprawled over their bed when Grantaire arrives, Joly and Musichetta draped over Bossuet’s bare chest. Joly is the only one awake, and with a mischievous smile, he whispers, “You didn’t say where or how we had to pray to her.”

***

The sun has just begun to set, golden rays bleeding dark into the sky, when Grantaire reaches the garden. His heart is pounding through his chest; his palms are sweating. He _wants_ so badly that he feels dizzy with it, but the thought of getting to have Enjolras in the way that he’s been lusting after for so long feels like a distant shore that he will never reach.

He arrives at the alcove nearly trembling. He wants to leave; he wants to stay. He _wants_. Just before he enters, a flash of wings shoots down from a tree and across his path. Grantaire nearly jumps out of his skin. Cursing and clutching his heart, he pivots and sees that it’s a white dove, perched on a new branch and preening itself. It coos at him, but to Grantaire’s ears it almost sounds like it’s laughing.

“Thank you,” he says, because the gods are temperamental and he doesn’t want to accidentally offend one. He’s not sure what to do, so he bows at it for good measure.

“I promise you that’s not my lady, if that’s your concern,” Enjolras says from behind him, and Grantaire spins around, feeling foolish. His breath catches. Enjolras has again done away with his armour and is just wearing his white chiton, down to his knee. He looks just as much like the god Grantaire thought he was the first time he saw him, gold in his skin, strength in his frame, a small smile on his unblemished face. And he can’t believe that this man wants him. He can’t.

“Your intuition precedes you, fair-cheeked Enjolras. Your foresight is a wondrous thing; plays could be written of it, it could be set into the stars!” Grantaire covers his embarrassment and worry with theatrics. Enjolras lets him play it out, and Grantaire doesn’t know what to do with the feeling that that leaves in his chest.

He holds a hand out to Grantaire and he reaches to take it before Enjolras is even within reach. He twines their fingers together and with his other hand cups the side of Enjolras’ face, sweeping curls away from the dusting of blond stubble there.

“It’s sunset,” Enjolras says, a thoughtful crease in his brow. “Have you appealed to that someone’s better nature?”

“I have indeed,” Grantaire says, “and it was in fact the dove I was bowing to earlier. Really, you also ought to have bowed with me, it deserves to be honoured for its service. I wonder, does your position extend to the value of the lives of animals?”

Enjolras turns his face into Grantaire’s hand and kisses the side of his wrist. It sets his heart racing. “Come now, Grantaire, be serious,” he says, but there’s amusement in his lovely voice.

“I always am,” he replies. “The dove was a sign from Aphrodite that she’s granted my request.”

“And what was that request?” Enjolras asks, kissing his palm this time. He did not expect Enjolras to want to touch him this much; it’s going to his head faster than any wine he’s drunk.

“That she hide us from the eyes of the gods tonight,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras makes a delighted sound. “Although I’m still wary of invoking your lady’s presence.”

“What would you have us do instead? Call her by another name?”

“Yes,” Grantaire says with a tinge of embarrassment that’s outweighed by his fear. “Or better yet avoid mentioning her entirely. If it’s unavoidable, we could always just call her by Combeferre’s name.”

“You remember?” Enjolras asks, wonder in his eyes.

“I remember everything you tell me,” Grantaire says too honestly. It’s too soon for this kind of honesty, but his discomfort is worth the way it makes Enjolras look at him.

“Come with me,” Enjolras says then, pulling him by the hand. He follows. He doesn’t know when he wouldn’t, truthfully.

Enjolras leads him silently, squeezing Grantaire’s hand as if also caught up in the novel feeling of the intense reality of touching and being touched. He leads him out of the gardens, past the training fields, and Grantaire doesn’t know why he didn’t realise before that even though Enjolras is without experience, he would do things on his own terms, in his own orbit.

Once they reach the clearing where Enjolras has spread pelts to form a bed, well slept in, Grantaire pushes him against the trunk of a cypress. He lets himself be pushed; Grantaire revels at the strength beneath his hands. When Enjolras’ back presses against the bark of the tree, he reaches for Grantaire and pulls them together.

Grantaire licks into his mouth and swallows the noise Enjolras makes. He mouths, he bites, he sucks; Enjolras follows his movements, a fast learner. He’s at once both leading and following, vulnerable and dominating, and Grantaire is so in love it pains him. He is waiting, waiting, for the inevitable fallout, for the inevitable rejection. But until that time comes, he is going to take whatever he can get.

Enjolras breaks away for breath, tipping his head back against the tree as his chest heaves. There’s a high flush climbing across his chest and up into his cheeks, and Grantaire can’t bear to be parted from it for a single second. He mouths his way across Enjolras’ strong jaw, down his neck, sucks at a spot under his collarbone. Above him, Enjolras has wound his hands into Grantaire’s hair and is letting out small gasps and heady sighs that are going straight to Grantaire’ lap.

“Will you let me take you into my mouth?” Grantaire breathes over his skin, reverent. He has not forgotten the offering he made to Aphrodite.

“Yes,” Enjolras breathes, and to cover his half-surprise, Grantaire begins unfastening Enjolras’ chiton. He hadn’t fully grasped that Enjolras wanted him this much, or in this way. He hadn’t ever hoped for more than his attention directed in scorn; his attention directed in affection and lust is almost too much for Grantaire. He knows that Enjolras agreed when he asked to bed him, but the idea and the reality were divorced in Grantaire’s mind until this precise moment.

All other thoughts fall out of his head the second the cloth drops from around Enjolras’ shoulders and onto the ground. He has been dreaming about the hard lines and sharp edges of this body since the pankration, with the marked difference of Enjolras’ cock flushed pink and straining. He drops to his knees, reveling in the groan Enjolras makes at the motion and is in half a mind to begin prayer and adoration. But the throbbing in his groin wins out, and Grantaire dives forward to lick a broad stripe up the underside of his cock, feeling the veins and committing them to memory. He wants to memorise every divot of Enjolras’s body and sketch it later, so he can relive this all over again.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras chokes out. “Oh, _gods-_”

“None of that,” Grantaire says against his hot skin, mouthing over a testicle before doing the same to the other. “They don’t concern us tonight.”

Enjolras swallows another exclamation and grips Grantaire’s hair. He pulls more than is polite, but Grantaire figures that it’s acceptable given the circumstances. He laves up the sides of his cock, taking the tip into his mouth and sucking, just a little. It wrings a high keening noise out of Enjolras, and Grantaire is _absolutely delighted_ to know how much noise Enjolras makes. His hips buck into Grantaire’s mouth; Grantaire keeps his hands firm on Enjolras’ hips and presses him back against the trunk to stop any more motion. He wants to make this last as long as he can.

Grantaire grips the base of Enjolras’ cock to keep him steady and starts swallowing down over his shaft. At first he bobs back and forth, maddeningly shallow- “Gran-_taire_,” Enjolras whines- until he works down to meet the hand that’s not holding Enjolras’ hip. He fucks himself onto Enjolras, rubbing his thumb in circles over his hipbone and on the skin between his testicles. He can feel the strain in Enjolras’ thighs as he fights to keep himself from rutting into Grantaire’s mouth. Every time he feels the head of his cock hit the back of his throat, Enjolras moans and the hands in his hair twitch.

“Grantaire, Grantaire,” Enjolras chants, “I’m going to- I’m-”

Grantaire pulls off, a string of spit flung onto his chin. He presses closed-mouth kisses over his cock and trails over to his thighs. He licks into the dip between Enjolras’ torso and the top of his thigh when he cries out at the sudden shock of cold air.

“I was so close, Grantaire, what are you doing?” Enjolras yells, and Grantaire half worries that it’s in genuine anger until he looks up and sees the sweat covering Enjolras’ unsteadily rising chest and the way his pupils have gone wide enough to make his eyes look black. He looks down at Grantaire in such betrayal that it would break Grantaire’s heart if it didn’t make him grin wickedly.

“You can’t think that that’s all, that I would swallow you down and be done with it,” he says, kissing and nipping his way back up to stand before him. He twines their fingers together, pressing a kiss to Enjolras’ knuckles in apology. Enjolras reaches for him again, using his slight height to his advantage, and slips his tongue past Grantaire’s teeth without preamble. Grantaire feels Enjolras everywhere: tongue in his mouth, hands roaming from his hair to the small of his back, hips pressed tight against him, knocking against the walls in his chest. He feels like Enjolras wants to consume him; he’ll gladly let him, he couldn’t deny him anything.

Enjolras presses his naked hips against Grantaire’s chiton insistently. Grantaire grinds back against him, and it evolves into something sloppy and desperate.

“Should we move to your bed?” Grantaire pants into his mouth. “I feel like we should move to your bed. I think that if we stay standing any longer my legs are going to give out and you’ll never forgive yourself for my impending paralysis.”

Enjolras laughs, eyes wild and delighted. “I didn’t know it could feel this way. I understand now why an oath such as mine shows such devotion to my-”

“Don’t mention her,” Grantaire interjects.

“Alright,” Enjolras says before pulling Grantaire’s lip with gentle teeth.

Grantaire pulls back, feels himself shrinking into himself. He finds the panic that has come rushing back hateful. Enjolras tries to chase after him and frowns when he’s just slightly out of reach. “Can we not talk about your oath? Please?”

Enjolras slides his hands up to frame Grantaire’s face. His thumbs brush over the stubble on his jaw that’s starting to become a beard. “Would it really displease you if I spoke of it?” he asks.

“Yes,” Grantaire says, his eyes closing. “Please, Enjolras, can we bring this up later?”

“Then yes, I won’t speak another word of it,” he says. “But I have a request for you.”

“What?” Grantaire says. “Anything. Ask and it’s yours, everything’s yours.”

Enjolras nuzzles under his ear and it sends shivers down Grantaire’s spine and heat shooting into his cock. “Disrobe.”

“Absolutely, it would be my pleasure,” Grantaire says without delay. “But what I said about your bed wasn’t lightly spoken.”

Enjolras laughs into his mouth. It feels like a blessing; Grantaire has this godlike man naked before him and still he does not know how it happened. “Yes,” Enjolras says, “come with me then.”

He takes Grantaire by the hand and again leads him. Grantaire unfastens his chiton as he goes, pulling it off in one motion. In the other hand he grips his piece of firewood, and buries it deep in the bundle while Enjolras’ back is still turned. He drops it beside the pelts.

Enjolras turns to face him with fire in his eyes but it inspires a different kind of tremor than Grantaire usually feels in the face of fire. They clamber to the ground in a tangle of limbs, twisting until Enjolras claims his place atop Grantaire, straddling his hips. The friction of their cocks rubbing against one another makes Grantaire buck up into him, and soon any thought of grace slips away as they begin grinding against each other again. Grantaire is torn again between taking in the sight of Enjolras above him in the gathering night, strong and sure, and seeking the high that he finds on his lips. In the end, it’s Enjolras who makes the decision for him: he leans down and crushes their mouths together in a bruising kiss, huffing into Grantaire’s mouth.

“What do you want?” Grantaire half moans into his mouth. “Enjolras, what do you want? Tell me, and it’s yours.”

Enjolras, hands braced on either side of Grantaire’s head, lets out a shuddering breath. “I’m afraid I’m not going to last long,” he grits out. “I want whatever will bring you there with me.”

“Equality in- _ah_\- in all things with you,” Grantaire huffs, pinching one of Enjolras’ nipples and feeling the moan it yields add fuel to the fire in his belly. “I’m right there with you, I- shit, _shit_. _Enjolras_.”

“Just like this, then,” Enjolras gasps against him, moving even more desperately. “Just- _Grantaire_\- just like this.”

So Grantaire grips Enjolras’ hips, guiding the sweat-slick slide of their chests and hips and thighs against each other into something more driving, less impulsive. He rocks back and forth against Enjolras’ trembling body, catching every gasp in a kiss. When he starts losing control over his movements, Grantaire moves a hand from Enjolras’ hip to the swell of his buttock and uses it as leverage to grind even more desperately. The other hand he slips between them and pinches and pulls Enjolras’ nipples between his fingers. They’re not even kissing anymore, Grantaire notes, just making noises and panting into each other’s mouths. One heartbeat, two, and then Enjolras is coming over their stomachs with a moan. He collapses onto Grantaire. Grantaire takes one second, two, to consider that Enjolras has just come because of _him_, and it’s that thought that pushes him over the edge, choking on his own breath.

They lay there, catching their breath, deafeningly loud in the quiet around them. After a minute Enjolras rolls from on top of him and gets to his feet. Grantaire feels cold panic seize him (_ugly men like me_), but Enjolras returns before he can do something rash like run, wringing out a damp cloth.

“This will be cold, I apologise,” he says, wiping the sticky mess off of Grantaire with excruciating care before he cleans himself. It makes something well up in the back of Grantaire’s throat. He swallows it down (_beautiful men like you_).

Enjolras sets the cloth down. The pelts under Grantaire shift as Enjolras lays down next to him on his side, reaching to grasp Grantaire’s hand in his. He rolls onto his side to face him, Enjolras’ smile making him feel warm and sated. Enjolras’ foot traces up the side of Grantaire’s calf before he nudges his knees apart and slips his leg in between, locking their ankles together.

“You seek touch like you haven’t just been brought to completion by it,” Grantaire says. “Maybe I should do better next time,” he jokes, anxiety whirring to life in his head when he considers that maybe Enjolras does not want a next time.

Enjolras makes a displeased noise. “There is divinity that could not have done better,” he says, brushing a lock of Grantaire’s hair off his forehead. His anxiety fades but lingers at the back of his mind; he feels foolish for having thought it at all, but it feels foolish not to.

Grantaire doesn’t know how to respond to Enjolras’ declaration, so he kisses him instead. It’s not chaste be any means, but it isn’t meant as a precursor. When Enjolras gently detaches himself, Grantaire catches sight of a familiar pelt along the others in the wine dark dusk.

“A gift given in honour dishonourably defiled, I see,” Grantaire says. “The boar’s hide,” he adds at Enjolras’ look of confusion. The last rays of the sun have abandoned them to be replaced by soft silver moonlight. It gives Enjolras the same unearthly beauty as before.

“I do not consider anything I have done with you this night dishonourable, because it has been done in love,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire has to squeeze his eyes closed. He tries to turn away but Enjolras stops him with a firm hand.

“Why do you keep doubting?” Enjolras asks him, frustration bubbling in his tone.

“I have said it before,” Grantaire says, looking up, looking at the lights behind his eyelids, looking anywhere but Enjolras. “Ugly men like me do not end up with beautiful men like you.”

“Why do you insist on this?” Enjolras says, voice rising. He drops Grantaire’s hand to push himself into a sitting position and Grantaire can’t help his wince. “What will this achieve? I don’t understand; you say that you trust me but you don’t trust what I’ve said about how I feel for you. Are you _trying_ to push me away?”

Grantaire’s silence gives him away. He can’t think past the heavy, ugly feeling in his chest, and he can’t bear to look at Enjolras. He’s ruined it with his ugliness and his contrariness, and it’s better this way. Enjolras can be unburdened and unblemished.

“Grantaire,” he says. And then softer, “Grantaire, look at me.”

Grantaire takes a breath to steady himself and looks. Enjolras’ face is contorted in frustration and smoothed in patience. He loves him so much it hurts.

“Do I need to tell you about the days and nights I’ve spent pacing, kept from sleep or peace because of thoughts of you? Since before you gave me the boar’s hide, since before the hunt even began. Of your good qualities, and of your bad ones, wondering why both made me question the oath I had taken? I know you said that you do not wish to speak of my oath to- to Combeferre,” he says, and Grantaire’s heart clenches at his thoughtfulness, just because Grantaire has asked. “But you should know that I do not do anything unless I am sure of it, and I am sure that I would break my oath for you and never need to wish for more. I’m sure that if could she see us it would already be considered broken, and I cannot find it in myself to regret it.”

It’s not even a decision when Grantaire lurches up and pulls Enjolras’ mouth against his.

This time there is no finesse or careful teasing; Grantaire just wants to be close to him, wants to worship him with his mouth and his hands and his eyes and his whole body. _Wants_, period. Their kiss is filthy: a flurry of tongue and teeth and pulling of hair. Grantaire sucks Enjolras’ tongue into his mouth and feels his cock swell against his thigh. It’s all the invitation he needs to push Enjolras onto his back and travel down to it, spending an indulgent minute sucking and biting and pulling at his nipples and watching his silhouette arch up and writhe in the moon’s light.

“I want to be inside of you,” Grantaire mutters wildly against Enjolras’ ribs. “Can I, oh please, please, let me be inside of you.”

“Yes, _oh, _oh. Yes,” Enjolras moans, and Grantaire wastes no time. He swirls his tongue around Enjolras’ cock and swallows him down once, twice, before his mouth pulls off and moves lower, mouthing at his testicles, licking a broad stripe over his perineum. When Grantaire finally presses the flat of his tongue over that tight ring of muscle, he feels Enjolras flinch away instinctively and let out a noise of shock.

“Relax,” he mumbles against the swell of Enjolras’ buttock, smoothing his hands over his thighs, boxed around his shoulders, and feeling the way they’re tensed.

“How can I?” Enjolras says unevenly. “How can I possibly?”

“You’re going to if you want me to open you up,” Grantaire says, rubbing small circles around Enjolras’ entrance with his index finger. He presses small kisses over the backs of this thighs, rubs the scruff of his jaw against the fine hairs there. Above him, Enjolras breathes shakily and incrementally he feels the tension ease out of him. With steady hands, Grantaire brushes against his entrance again with the tips of his fingers, and though Enjolras jumps he doesn’t clench down. Grantaire follows his fingers with his tongue, lapping at the skin there. Every breath that Enjolras takes begins coming out as a moan, his fingers trembling where they rest on Grantaire’s head. At some point he _sucks_, and the noise that it tears from Enjolras makes Grantaire’s cock twitch against his leg. Grantaire figures that he is ruined for anyone else; no manner of person that he could take to bed will ever compare to this.

He hitches Enjolras’ legs up and over his shoulders for leverage before he thrusts his tongue past the tight muscle, fingers digging into the skin below his hipbones.

“Grantaire, _Grantaire_-!” Enjolras gasps. One of his hands jumps from Grantaire’s head to start stroking his flushed cock.

“Be patient,” Grantaire says, pulling away with a gasp. He drags Enjolras’ hand away, ignoring his whine, and holds it against his leg, gripped with his own. “I’ve got you, just be patient.”

The night around is silent but for the obscene sounds coming from his mouth as he fucks Enjolras with his tongue. “Oil,” Grantaire says after a minute stretching years, “do you have oil?”

“Yes, I can get it for you,” Enjolras says weakly, and before Grantaire can protest he’s clambered off of Grantaire’s shoulders and manoeuvred himself away on shaky legs. Grantaire blinks and he’s returned, handing him a stoppered vial of olive oil. He lowers himself to the ground, graceful and strong in spite of the unsteadiness of his movements.

Grantaire bends Enjolras’ knees and pushes them up and away from each other. Enjolras’ hands, perfectly made, grasp at the pelt underneath his naked back. His knuckles are white from what Grantaire can see in the darkness.

The oil is cool when Grantaire pours it over the fingers of his right hand. His left he runs up and down along the side of Enjolras’ thigh, thick with sinew. He circles his entrance with his index finger.

“Breathe for me,” he says, and when Enjolras complies, he pushes in his finger up to the second knuckle on the exhale. Enjolras clenches down around him.

“Oh!” he exclaims, and Grantaire presses a kiss to the base of his cock as a reward.

Grantaire pulls his finger out, which makes Enjolras makes a noise of complaint. It quickly changes into something else as Grantaire pushes back in, all the way this time. He takes his time fucking Enjolras with one finger, kissing his overheated skin for every gasp or moan he lets out.

“More,” Enjolras groans, “Grantaire, more.”

He acquiesces, spilling more oil over his fingers and this time pushes in two fingers. He scissors them, crooks them, finally reaches the spot that makes Enjolras’ spine arch and his toes curl. He adds a third finger, feeling the ring of muscle stretch, and Enjolras groans. He nudges against that spot again and again, ignoring the insistent throbbing between his legs, until Enjolras snaps at him, “Don’t be difficult, Grantaire, stop delaying!”

Grantaire rubs the oil on his hand over his cock, nearly crying at the feeling of pressure finally against him. He covers himself in more oil for good measure. “Yes, highness,” he says with a sarcastic smile.

Enjolras scowls at him, but it falls into something more like rapture when Grantaire climbs over him and pushes the head of his cock in.

“Fuck,” Grantaire spits, “Fuck, Enjolras, you feel so good.” The heat and the pressure that surround him wipe every other thought from Grantaire’s head. It feels so good he feels like he’s dying. “Keep breathing for me, alright?”

Enjolras nods, a flush high in his cheeks and eyes bright. There’s sweat beading along his brow, and Grantaire feels love swell in him. When he bottoms out, he lets out a long breath against Enjolras’ neck.

“Let me know when I can move,” he says, sucking Enjolras’ earlobe into his mouth.

“Now, you can move now, I’m not made of glass, please move,” Enjolras says, and it’s so close to begging that Grantaire doesn’t even think of being difficult. He starts the push and pull, cradled between Enjolras’ legs. Aphrodite’s promise weighs on him; he doesn’t think she’ll grant him a favour like this again, so he wants to make this last.

He starts slowly, sliding in and out, oil-slick. He puffs out air against Enjolras’ trembling mouth, nudges the golden hair off his forehead. Gradually he works into a longer, slicker glide, testing his own restraint.

“Does- ah- does it always feel like this?” Enjolras stutters. For all his noise, he sounds quiet. But Grantaire somehow expects this; Enjolras is fierce by nature but is silent unless stirred into speech. Or in their case, argument. Grantaire can’t pretend that he hasn’t imagined an argument turning into something just like this. His imagination, Grantaire decides, is woefully inadequate. No amount of mortal wondering can compare with the reality of Enjolras stretched out beneath him, anointed in sweat and open for him.

“No, it’s you, you’re perfect, oh gods, you’re heaven-sent, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t remember deciding to say it.

“I thought that kind of speech was off-limits,” Enjolras says on a heady sigh, and Aphrodite help him if he ever truly learns to be teasing, or coy.

“You’re going to kill me,” he says, picking up his pace. The impact of his next thrust knocks the breath out of Enjolras’s lungs as he hits that spot again, and he feels Enjolras’ jolt in his own body.

They abandon words as heat works its way hotter and deeper into Grantaire’s belly. He reaches between them and grips Enjolras’ cock, pumping it in time with his thrusts. The addition makes Enjolras shudder beneath him and scrabble for purchase on his shoulders, hanging on for dear life. A minute later and Enjolras gasps, “I’m- ah,” as he comes over Grantaire’s fist. Grantaire lets himself abandon any restraint, seconds away from the edge himself, and thrusts erratically into Enjolras’ tight heat until he spills into it with a choked groan.

He pulls out of Enjolras as gently as he can, wincing in sympathy as his face twists in discomfort. In the silver light of the moon it’s hard to see more than outlines and impressions, but Grantaire spots the cloth Enjolras left near them. He wipes them both off and flops onto his back, sucking in air like a bellows. He feels the pelts rustle beneath him again as Enjolras moves to drape himself over his bare chest, sweat going stale in the cool night air.

“I do not regret this now, and I will not regret it tomorrow, nor the next day, nor the next after that,” Enjolras says, kissing the hollow between Grantaire’s collarbones.

“I’m trying my best to believe it,” Grantaire says, tracing the gaps in the treetops with his eyes. And it’s true. He is, he’s going to try as hard as he can. Enjolras deserves that.

“Believe you shall,” Enjolras says, nuzzling up against his jaw, like a great cat. “Because I will not rest until I have convinced you.”

Grantaire laughs, although half of it’s a shiver. He tips his head to the side to catch Enjolras’ lips with his own, and they kiss deeply and slowly, for its own sake. Grantaire will never tire of this, he knows, he could spend every day like this for the rest of his life for as long as the Moirai allow and he will never stop marvelling at it.

Enjolras nips gently at his top lip and parts from him even more gently. “I’m loathe to bring this up,” he says, and Grantaire’s too sated to even work up the worry over it, “but if we are only hidden for the night, it would probably not be wise of you to be here when the sun rises.”

Grantaire tries to clamp down on the niggling starting at the back of his mind. When he doesn’t respond, Enjolras says, “I want you to stay, make no mistake. I want nothing more than for you to stay here in this bed, but I don’t want to take the risk if it’s your life at stake and not mine.” He looks at Grantaire earnestly, teeth gleaming in the dark.

“Couldn’t I stay just a little longer? An hour?” Grantaire pleads. Rosy-fingered Dawn won’t arise anytime soon, and she rises later in the winter months.

“An hour,” Enjolras agrees, kissing him softly and lying his head against the thud of Grantaire’s heart. They trace over the lines of each other’s bodies with calloused fingers and chapped mouths.

“Tell me about your household,” Enjolras says, although Grantaire hears it as a question. “Tell me about your childhood.”

“You know all of this,” Grantaire insists. “It’s your household that I wish to hear of, your childhood that I know nothing about.”

“Tell me anyway,” Enjolras says, “and in exchange I will tell you what you wish to hear.”

Grantaire grins. “My father, Oeneus, son of Porthaon, son of Agenor, was taught to make wine from its divine inventor,” he begins, avoiding speaking any godly names. He trusts in Aphrodite’s protection but he of all people knows not to tempt fate. “My mother, Althaea, daughter of Thestius and Eurythemis, bore him six sons and four daughters, of whom I am the eldest.” He pauses.

“Why have you stopped?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire looks at him, pressed against his chest with a fond look on his face. He’s trying to believe that Enjolras won’t regret him, but it does nothing to stop his surprise at such tenderness.

“You know all of this, surely it bores you,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras frowns. “Nothing you say could bore me. Aggravate me, certainly, if you wish me to be balanced in my observations, but never boring.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what to say to this. He finds it so hard to believe that Enjolras finds things remarkable or good about him, when he is the most remarkable man, the best man, that Grantaire has ever seen. Enjolras fills his silence, a reversal of role.

“Tell me something that I wouldn’t know, then. You’re so fond of bringing up my connection to wisdom, why not grant me more?”

“Fine,” Grantaire says, “let me think.” He pauses, runs a hand through his hair now stale with sweat. “My youngest sisters Melanippe and Eurymede kept a guinea fowl as a pet in our childhood, and one day I accidentally stepped on its tail. It chased me the length of the palace until I tripped and fell onto a Curete dignitary.”

Enjolras snorts. Grantaire can hardly believe his ears; he grins wide in delight. “I would hardly call this knowledge wisdom, but you’ve promised me knowledge in return, and I intend to hold you to it,” he says, curling a lock of Enjolras’ hair around his finger.

“Alright,” he says. “You wanted to know of my household? My father is the king of Arcadia.”

Grantaire holds his breath. Whatever he was expecting Enjolras to say, it was not this.

He continues. “My mother died giving birth to me, and in a rage, he left me on a mountainside to die. But Combeferre,” he says, smiling like it’s a joke, which Grantaire supposes it is to him, “took pity on me, and sent a she-bear to nurse me. I grew up in the wilderness, and she often came to visit me and guide me. Eventually, she sent me to travel so as to grow in knowledge, and that led to my meeting the actual Combeferre in Athens. Before I met him, she appeared to me as an Arcadian king that I greatly admired from my studies, Lamarque.”

“What is he like? Combeferre?” Grantaire asks, hating the jealousy that picks at his heart.

Enjolras smiles against his chest. “Combeferre is far more logical than I,” he says. “I would often fly into rages in my youth whenever I saw injustice around me, and it was he who persuaded me to consider less vengeful courses of action when his divine counterpart was not there to guide me. He saved a great many people’s lives in their unwise courting attempts.”

“Did you have many suitors before you came to Calydon? Or did the number dwindle once your presence began to be taken as a sign of divine wrath? There’s an irony here about you being believed to be cursed and seeking out a cursed man, I’m sure of it,” Grantaire goads him, without any bite.

Enjolras rolls his eyes fondly. “She began to send me where there was disruption once I had proven myself a skilled fighter. It was natural that I began to be seen as a cause, rather than a solution.” Grantaire pokes him between his ribs, and he sighs. “Yes, alright, there were a great many suitors, all of whom were unwanted until now.” He kisses Grantaire’s collarbone, and he feels giddiness like a living thing inside him. After a breath he can’t contain it and brings Enjolras’ mouth up to his all over again.

It’s when he grips Enjolras by the stark jut of his hipbones and starts to pull him on top of him that Enjolras puts a hand on his chest and pulls away. “It’s been an hour,” he says, although he looks unhappy about it.

“How do you know that for certain?” Grantaire asks, peevish.

“Ask a bear how she knows that the winter will be upon her the next day, Grantaire, there are some things that I just know,” Enjolras says. “Go, before her eyes are cleared.”

“This isn’t the last, is it?” Grantaire asks, suddenly seized by panic. He can’t think past it; he doesn’t know how he’ll live if he gets to know what it is to be with Enjolras in the way he has only dreamed of and then have it be prevented by a goddess’ wrath.

“I swear to you, we will find a way to break my oath that does not stir her anger,” Enjolras says, kissing his knuckles. “Now _go_.”

Grantaire doesn’t know how he tears himself away, but he does: he picks up his clothes, mindful of the kindling inside, stumbles through the trees, drunk on memory, until he reaches his own chambers. He falls onto his bed, staring at the ceiling, and feels the ghosts of Enjolras’ touch all over him.

***

Joly, when Grantaire sees him early in the afternoon, looks at him with something suspiciously like pity. Grantaire doesn’t know what to make of it, but he knows it can’t be good. Then again, with Joly, the source of his pity could just be the rumour of a cold sweeping around the palace. That’s all it is, Grantaire tells himself, nothing to worry about.

“May Zeus smile on us today, my dear godlike Joly, and Dionysus smile on us tonight!” Grantaire exclaims.

Joly gives him a strained smile. “Actually, my friend, I’m not sure that tonight is a good night to be indulgent in drink.”

“What ever could you mean?” Grantaire says, grandiose. He knows that Joly knows he’s exaggerating to hide his worry, he knows that he always knows, but he can’t help it.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” Joly says, wringing his hands. He avoids Grantaire’s eyes, looks at his sandaled feet instead. “There’s no easy way to put it.”

“Has Herakles’ monstrous sow come to mourn its offspring? Wait, I know, my dear mother has finally gone through with the deed and passed the crown from my head to Tydeus’. No, don’t tell me! My father’s wine stores have all been stolen in the night, and this is the reason for your gloom.”

Joly doesn’t laugh. Grantaire forces himself not to jump off the deep end just yet; he promised he would try. He doesn’t want to fail him so soon, he doesn’t want to fail him at all. He fidgets with the edge of his tunic.

“I- maybe I should just give you this,” Joly says, holding out a sheet of paper, folded in thirds.

Grantaire doesn’t want to take it. He doesn’t know what’s on it but he doesn’t _want_ to know, he doesn’t want to know why Joly is treating him as if he’s fragile. He’s not- just flammable.

“Grantaire,” Joly says, still holding it out to him. Numbly he takes it from his hand. He doesn’t even remember decided to move.

He unfolds it and sees that it’s a letter addressed to him, not by his formal title but just by his name. The script is strong and clear and small, written in perfectly straight lines, and Grantaire knows that it’s from Enjolras, he just _knows_ it.

_Grantaire_, it says, _I’m sorry. My lady came to me just after sunrise to send me to Argos to dissuade its king from an attack on Thebes. I’ve been instructed to leave with Pontmercy’s party since Corinth is on the way. From what I could tell from her visit, this has nothing to do with my oath- she only hides her plans, not her feelings. I don’t know when I’ll return, but I promise you this: I will return. _

It is not signed, as if he’s deemed it unnecessary.

Grantaire stares at it, and stares at it, looking over it with unseeing eyes as if new words will suddenly spring forth. Joly folds Grantaire’s free hand between both of his.

“Joly, why are you shaking? You’re shaking, why are you shaking,” Grantaire asks.

“I’m not shaking,” Joly says gently. “It’s you, R, why don’t we sit down somewhere?”

“He’s gone?” Grantaire asks. “They’ve left?”

Joly smiles at him sadly. “This morning, R, I’m sorry.”

“I have to go,” Grantaire says, again, and he feels sweat bleeding onto the page gripped in his hand as he stumbles to the woods on the edge of the grounds. He ignores Joly calling for him to come back. He reaches the clearing where Enjolras’ camp was, where he had lain less than twelve hours ago, and sees no sign that anyone been here. It’s as if he’s dropped off from the face of the earth.

Marius and Cosette left this morning, he knows, remembers them saying at their arrival that they would be leaving this morning. Gods, they left while Grantaire was sleeping and he didn’t get to see them go. _This has nothing to do with my oath_.

Grantaire’s not going to spiral, he’s not. He’s shaking and his breathing is starting to constrict but it has nothing to do with Enjolras’ oath. He wants comfort; he wants a drink, but he doesn’t want to have either one alone.

The drink wins out, and he goes to find Éponine.

***

The flush rising on Éponine’s olive cheeks makes her look more lively than she’s been since Grantaire found out that Marius was coming to Calydon. They’re sitting on the floor of her small room, where she holds more power than Grantaire ever does by contrast in his father’s throne room. Her hair is a bird’s nest, scraggly all the way down her back; Grantaire thinks, in their shared misery, that it could not look any more different than the perfect golden waves that Cosette wears pinned up with pearls.

“Don’t be such a fucking baby, R,” she says in that callous way she only has when they’re both drunk. She waves around her wine, sloshing some over her hand. She licks up the drops running over her hand and mumbles around her tongue, “Did you think he was going to stay forever and you would marry and a vengeful maiden goddess would never be involved in your life?”

“Careful Ép,” Grantaire says, her words making his heart sink somewhere around his navel, “someone might get the idea you’re talking about yourself.”

“Fuck you,” Éponine hurls at him, although she’s drunkenly laughing. It’s an ugly, sorting sound, and it makes Grantaire snort with her. A wave of laughter overtakes him, one that makes his gut ache. It forces him to double over, forces him to brace himself with a hand flat against the floor. He doesn’t notice it become an ugly sobbing until he tastes salt. Ugly, Grantaire thinks, he is ugly in all things.

“Sorry,” he gasps, “I’m sorry, I’ll control myself, I can control myself.” He clenches his jaw to try to contain the trembling in his lip, breathes in, breathes out. 

“Can you?” Éponine asks him, but there’s no judgement in her voice. She reaches out to wipe off a tear that’s dangling off the tip of his nose. It’s more tender than she usually is, and it’s this that tells Grantaire how sad she’s been this week.

“Hey, I know that Enjolras leaving for the foreseeable future is pretty tragic,” she says quietly. “But just. Don’t forget that he has feelings for you, R. And that he promised he’d come back. Don’t take that for granted, for my sake. I don’t give a fuck about your own inferiority complex, you’re crown prince and you can get over it.”

Grantaire laughs. “You’re right,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “But you’re about as nice as the Eumenides about it.”

Éponine bares her teeth at him in a smile. “Being considerate of men’s feelings isn’t exactly a priority in Artemis’ priesthood.”

“Is that why you joined, then?” Grantaire teases. “To sharpen your words into fine points with which to stab men’s hearts?” He brings his wine to his lips only to find that it’s empty and frowns. Perhaps he should stop, or at the very least slow down. His face feels hot and he’s sure he’s even more flushed than Éponine. He’s missed dinner at the palace by now, if it’s not still happening. His mother must be pleased to avoid him; there are no visitors to disgrace himself in front of, for once.

“Who said it was just sharpening words? Artemis is the goddess of the hunt,” Éponine says, swallowing down a hiccup. “But I didn’t just join to have divine protection if I ever decided to kill him for being so clueless,” she continues. “It’s good to have a purpose that’s so separate from him. Even Gav and Azelma couldn’t help me the way my lady did.”

Grantaire takes her hand and squeezes. “I’m glad, Ép,” he says as sincerely as he can when the wine has gone so far to his head.

“Me too,” she says, hiccupping again.

Grantaire feels himself drifting off to sleep, his head lolling against Éponine’s. He should stop himself, shouldn’t make Éponine deal with his dead weight, but the prospect of not thinking for a while sounds so good. He lets himself drift.

***

Grantaire does not deserve the friends he has, he decides. He’s not given the chance to dissolve into the puddle of misery he wants to become during the day: Bahorel wakes him (with his sandal) every morning to go train, Bossuet or Joly are always around the corner about to ask him on an errand, Musichetta is perpetually asking him to accompany her on trips to the market or to dance with her when they run across musicians performing in the open air. Éponine usually comes to intercept him after his daily visits to Aphrodite’s temple. Feuilly even manages to convince his father to increase his duties in the palace, for which Grantaire isn’t sure he wants to curse or thank him.

And yet, nothing they do short of sleeping in the same room as him can stop the dark hands of the night from clutching at his lungs. He finds himself wrestling with a parade of thoughts, circling back again and again. Enjolras promised he would return, Grantaire promised he would try to believe him; the Moirai themselves are taking it into their hands to make sure he knows his place (_ugly men like him_). Grantaire’s almost holy belief in Enjolras’ might comes across its first stumbling block: his own lack of faith in himself, and the knowledge that believing in Enjolras in this now comes back to believing that he is all the things Enjolras says he is. Most often than not, the thoughts that clamour for his attention the most are the lines and swell and ridges of Enjolras’ body, the way he might be an avenging god in the face of that which displeases him, the golden sound of his voice. Grantaire sketches him, night after night, trying to relive every detail. After days stretch into weeks, he would wonder whether he dreamed the whole thing but for the news that Éponine gives him one day, brought to her ears by Gavroche’s network of street urchins.

“Gav came by this morning,” she says. “He has news from Argos.”

Grantaire stops feigning interest in the pomegranates on a fruit stand next to them. He knows that when Éponine says _Argos _she really means _Enjolras_. He wants to ask, but the words stick in his throat. Éponine can see the question in his face anyway.

“Two sons of Ixion, Hylaeus and Rhoesus, challenged him to a race, and when they couldn’t beat him, they tried to attack him.”

Grantaire holds his breath, feeling like glass.

“Gav said that his friend saw Enjolras kill them, but Gav didn’t say anything else, or what it was about. That’s all I have, R, I’m sorry.”

The emptiness in his chest could fill the sea. They don’t speak any more of it.

The smell of roses and jasmine fills Grantaire’s nose as he enters Aphrodite’s temple as it always does, after Éponine sends him away so she can do her job and be a priestess. It’s a beautiful scent, which is fitting, but it also fills Grantaire with loneliness now.

When Grantaire looks around, however, no one else is there, not even the priestesses. It makes the hair raise on the back of his neck. He rests his hand on the hilt of his sword, but knows better than to draw it in a temple. It’s a seat of power for the god to whom it belongs.

He creeps forward to peer around the larger than life statue of Aphrodite that blocks his line of sight. He almost jumps out of his skin when he sees someone standing on its other side, head tipped in thought. It’s a woman, the most beautiful woman Grantaire’s ever seen: her hair is dark like Musichetta’s, and her skin is smooth and fair.

“Where has everyone gone?” Grantaire asks her. “Have you seen anything?”

She smiles at him, and Grantaire forgets all his worry.

“Do you like apples?” she asks him.

“Do I- huh? Yes? Sure,” Grantaire says.

“There are some in this temple if you’d like them,” she says, still smiling at him. “So golden and good that the smell could make you drop everything you’re doing to eat one. You need only ask.”

Grantaire casts his eyes around as if they’ll magically appear around him. He looks back to the woman, but sees no one. Only the smell of roses and jasmine remains.

When Grantaire returns to the palace, he finds his mother wailing, the high whine of her voice echoing off the cold stone walls. Persephone made the journey into the light from the fetid underworld just a few days ago, and creeping flowers have begun to bloom around the pillars again. One of his sisters tells him in a hurried whisper that Tydeus, the next brother in line after him, has set off for Thebes on the same doomed errand that Enjolras left to persuade Argos’ king to avoid. Two pieces of news connected to Enjolras in one day make Grantaire’s heart jump painfully and his hands start shaking. He forms a fist over the clump of fabric that hides his lump of firewood.

***

“Get up,” his mother hisses, her eyes red. “A visiting party is arriving soon, you need to be there to greet them.”

Grantaire rubs the bleariness from his eyes. “Where from?” Rosy-fingered Dawn has barely risen.

“Athens,” she says, before leaving his chambers in a swirl of robes, golden crown gleaming in her hair.

Grantaire pulls his chiton on and fastens it before he stumbles after her. He fights the heavy blinking that sleep lulls him with, but two figures appear in the door and suddenly Grantaire is wide awake.

_No,_ he thinks, _this can’t be happening._

A man with curling brown hair and an easy smile stands beside another brown-haired man that Grantaire knows. That Grantaire has seen thrice before, that has haunted him for the better part of the winter and into the spring. He can’t control the shiver that overtakes him.

Except as soon as he speaks, it becomes abundantly clear to Grantaire that this is not Pallas Athena, but actually Combeferre. There’s no godly fury in his voice, for one. For some reason, this startles him more.

“Thank you for graciously allowing us to stay with you while we are in Calydon,” Combeferre says. “My companion Courfeyrac, son of Actor, and I have travelled a long way from Athens and are glad to have a place to bathe and rest our feet.” The way he speaks is reasonable and calm, and Grantaire can see why the goddess of wisdom would choose to appear to Enjolras in his form. Courfeyrac beside him bows his head when he’s acknowledged. Grantaire thinks to himself that if he had met Courfeyrac before he’d been bowled over by the sight of Enjolras in that chariot race, he would have taken him to bed.

Courfeyrac’s eyes keep flitting back to Grantaire while his father speaks, and he can’t help feeling that he’s being appraised for something. There’s a smile playing at Courfeyrac’s lips.

Combeferre, for his part, does not look anywhere but whoever’s speaking, or at Oeneus when it’s he himself speaking. When they’re given their leave and servants are sent to draw them baths, he glances over at Grantaire, eyes piercing. He feels as though he’s just been through a test, but he has no idea whether he’s passed it or not. He swallows past the disappointment that they brought no news of Enjolras, but he supposes that just because Combeferre is friends with him does not mean that he’s had any word from Argos about him.

The sun is still a deep orange sort of gold at this hour, so Grantaire decides to walk in the gardens for a while, before Bahorel will inevitably come to prod him awake. He really is a collective effort, at this point.

He trails his fingers over the hedges as he walks past them, no real path or goal in sight. Sometimes he just comes here, to the open air, so the space above him makes the pressure in his chest less dense. He turns a corner. There in front of him is Enjolras.

“Grantaire,” he breathes, golden and good. “_Beloved_.”

Grantaire is frozen to the spot. Seeing him in person feels like an out of body experience. Enjolras’ words, the sound of his lovely voice, make Grantaire’s chest _ache_.

“What did you call me?” he asks. He can’t bear to look. He can’t tear his eyes away.

“Beloved,” Enjolras says again, walking towards him. He cups Grantaire’s cheek with great tenderness, and he has to close his eyes at it. “My beloved.”

Enjolras presses his forehead against Grantaire’s, and he had forgotten how that slight height over him made him feel. Grantaire tries to remember to breathe. He feels lightheaded; he feels more grounded than ever.

“How are you here?” Grantaire asks him. “When did you return?”

“This morning, with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. When Amphiaraus left for Thebes from Argos I returned by way of Athens, where I ran into them.”

“But how are you here?” Grantaire asks him again. “Why are you here?”

“Why am I here?” Enjolras asks him, voice soft. “I told you I would return, did I not?”

Grantaire can’t stand the disappointment in his voice. “You did, fuck, Enjolras, that’s not what I meant, I-” he says, stopping to get his words in order. The breath that Enjolras expels against his face as he exhales smells clean, smells familiar.

The silence between them stretches on as Grantaire fights to put the tight feeling in his chest into words. Eventually, Enjolras breaks it.

“I’d like to kiss you, if that’s alright. I can’t do much more than that before I attract my lady’s attention.” He flexes his hand with its long and elegant fingers against Grantaire’s cheek, now fully covered in a beard. “Beloved,” he adds.

Grantaire lets out a choked exhale and kisses him, so much the same and so different than all those weeks ago. He chases after every line on Enjolras’ lips, every ridge of his teeth, every small noise he makes. Enjolras kisses him like he’s a starving man, and it amazes Grantaire to no end. He is here. He is here and he is kissing Enjolras.

“You killed two men in Argos,” Grantaire says after they part, not aware of the words until they’re out of his mouth.

To his great surprise, Enjolras’s mouth stretches into a wide smile. “This is good news,” he says.

“How?” Grantaire asks him. “Explain. You are so fond of explanation, after all.” He clutches at the back of Enjolras’ tunic, feeling the warm shift of the muscles beneath it.

“It’s the way to break my oath without angering her, and she came up with it herself. For when the time comes that you’re sure,” he says, eyes bright, and Grantaire loves him so much. _Beloved_.

“By killing me?” he says, grinning. “I’m sure that it would do the opposite of anger her, this is true.”

Enjolras nips at his bottom lip, chastising. “No, Grantaire, be serious.”

“I am always serious,” Grantaire interjects, but he stays silent when Enjolras _looks_ at him. It’s even more withering this close up.

“She told me this: ‘let anyone who wishes to marry you challenge you to a race. If they win, you shall wed, and if they lose, they shall be slain.’” he says, face alight with satisfaction.

Grantaire nearly goes cross-eyed in the effort to look at him head on. He could move back to do it, he supposes. But he doesn’t want to, so he won’t. “Isn’t there a small flaw here?” he asks.

Enjolras frowns at him.

“I have no chance at beating you in a footrace,” Grantaire says. “You are the fastest man in Aetolia, perhaps the fastest Hellene alive.”

“Then I will throw the race,” Enjolras says. “I won’t run my fastest, I’ll make sure to let you gain a lead.”

“No,” Grantaire says, frustration blooming from nowhere, “no! No one will believe if I beat you on merit alone, and especially not _her! _I don’t want to win your hand because you’ve let me beat you.”

“Grantaire, you’ve already won my hand,” Enjolras says, achingly gentle. Grantaire loved him for his thunderous grace, his solemn might, but now Grantaire loves him for the softness that he could not have expected.

“Just don’t throw the race, please, don’t lose because you’ve chosen to lose,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t know how to explain that he doesn’t want to win because Enjolras surrenders to him. He doesn’t want being with Enjolras to be by Enjolras’ loss. He needs to do it himself, earn it himself, if not by skill then by cleverness.

“Are you doing this because you still think I’m going to regret breaking my oath for you?” Enjolras asks him. He’s still.

“No, I just- I- here,” Grantaire says, and in one fluid movement he extracts the firewood from the folds of his chiton and presses it into Enjolras’ chest. “_Here_. This is yours. I wouldn’t give it to you if I thought you were going to leave for good, even if I still can’t imagine why you want me.”

Enjolras looks down in shock at it. His hands come away from Grantaire’s face and, trembling, take the kindling from Grantaire like he’s holding his life in his hands. Which, Grantaire reflects, he is.

“Grantaire,” he breathes. “Is this…is it?”

“Yes,” Grantaire says, “and I believe in you enough to give it to you, if you want to have it.” He says _it_ like it’s something separate from him, like he hasn’t just handed Enjolras his life.

“Grantaire,” he says again, like it’s all he knows how to say.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says to him. He decides to be brave. “_Beloved_.”

It’s all it takes for the dam to break and sweep him up in the flood of Enjolras’ hands, one still grasping the firewood, his mouth, his hair everywhere, _Enjolras_ everywhere. _Beloved_.

***

Spending time alone with Enjolras is a terrible idea, Grantaire thinks to himself later as they sit at one of the tables in the big dining hall. They sit three spaces apart and on opposite sides of the table, because the temptation to touch and to taste and to feel is too much when Grantaire’s within grabbing distance, for both he and Enjolras. Now that his shock has mostly passed, all he can think about is the image of Enjolras stretched open beneath him, his last sight before the rest of that dreadful and lonely winter. Enjolras must feel similarly, if the blush on his shaven cheeks is any indication.

“Hello children!” comes a voice to from the main door, to Grantaire’s back. He sees the smile pushing at Enjolras’ lips (which he was _not_ staring at) and turns in his seat. It’s Combeferre’s companion, Courfeyrac, his arms thrown out to his sides like he’s in the middle of a dance. Combeferre follows behind him, more subdued but still smiling, and Grantaire has to remind himself that it’s _just _Combeferre.

“So you’re Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says, sitting down next to him and slinging an arm around his shoulders. His smile is flirtatious, his teeth are white, and his eyes are warm. “We’ve heard so much about you that we decided to come see you for ourselves. All good things of course!”

“He must not have told you much about me then,” Grantaire grins. Enjolras frowns at him from next to Combeferre, but Grantaire just blows him a sarcastic kiss. It makes Enjolras blush, nonetheless.

“Oho! So it is true!” Courfeyrac shouts, leaning across the table with bent elbows to get into Enjolras’ space. “You _have_ fallen in love, we knew it would happen eventually!”

Enjolras glares at him, and it’s so nice to not have it directed at him that Grantaire snorts. “I have more principle than you give me credit for, Courf.”

“But it _did_ happen, didn’t it?” Combeferre says, smiling smugly. Enjolras looks at him like he’s been betrayed, and Combeferre rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic about it, Enj. No one’s saying you still can’t be principled and _also_ want to marry.”

Enjolras just glares more fiercely.

_Enj_, Grantaire thinks. A nickname. It’s beyond bizarre to see Enjolras interacting with these two men like a normal person, with his _friends_. Grantaire half expects to look out the window and see the river Lethe flowing there.

“I’m in half a mind to believe that the king of Argos left for Thebes to escape that sour look,” Courfeyrac stage whispers to Grantaire, and yes, he likes him. He likes them both a lot. “Or maybe his tragic pining. The journey up here was absolutely torturous, he wouldn’t stop brooding about you.”

Grantaire looks at Enjolras incredulously, who has his face in his hands. His neck is red. “Is this true? Was the mighty Enjolras reduced to pining and brooding?” Grantaire says. He looks at Courfeyrac for confirmation, who nods cheerfully. Combeferre looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“You’re wretched traitors, the lot of you!” Enjolras snaps.

“Yes, I’m sure we are,” Combeferre says dryly. “Now, Grantaire, tell us about yourself.”

***

All the air gets compressed out of Grantaire’s lungs as Bossuet picks him up and swings him round in a circle, grinning from ear to ear. Musichetta and Joly laugh together, ignoring his pleas to be let down again.

“We told you,” Joly says. “We told you things would end well!”

“And that your prayers would be answered,” Musichetta says.

“Zeus, did we ever tell you,” Bossuet says.

“Now tell _us_ everything!” they say in unison.

“Do I have to tell you everything right this very instant?” Grantaire says. “Can’t you let a man catch his breath and revel for a bit before he gets into things like oration and morality?”

“Wine, then!” Joly cries. “I’ll fetch the wine!”

“And food!” Musichetta says. “Let’s set a table.”

So they busy themselves with preparing meat and cheeses and olives and fruits to eat. Grantaire’s cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling. They interrupt each other and pull a partner into a dance, they steal bites of food, they laugh. They make libations and have just settled down when Musichetta suddenly says, “Oh, Bossuet, do we still have any apples left?”

Grantaire feels as though he’s been knocked over the head with a club. “Apples?” he says.

“We just picked some earlier this week,” Joly explains, but Grantaire doesn’t hear him. _Apples_.

“I’m sorry,” he says, scrambling to his feet, “I have to go, I’m sorry, I’ll explain later.”

“R?” Bossuet asks, his wine halfway to his mouth.

“I’ll explain later!” he calls over his shoulder. He bursts into a run and makes a beeline for Aphrodite’s temple. He vaults up the steps and flings himself inside, breathing heavily. He spots a priestess arranging flowers beside an offering.

“Do you have any apples?” Grantaire asks, frantic. She looks at him in confusion and some alarm. Grantaire curses and flings himself to his knees in front of the statue of Aphrodite.

_Please,_ he prays, _please, I’d like those apples now, please. _

Before he even catches his breath, Grantaire feels a tap on his shoulder. It’s the same priestess from weeks ago, her brown hair braided back. She’s holding a woven basket.

“It is done,” she says, confused but smiling. “She says that you will only need these three, and that they won’t affect you. I’m not going to ask.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire breathes, taking the basket from her and pressing a swift kiss on her cheek. “Holy Pandemos, thank you so much.”

“You’re in here often,” she says, looking at him shrewdly, but not unkindly.

“I am,” Grantaire says, “but right now I’m afraid I have to be elsewhere.”

“Go then,” she says, and Grantaire goes. He hoists the basket under an arm and runs and runs and runs, runs until he reaches the edge of the woods.

“Enjolras!” he calls. “Enjolras!”

“I’m here,” his voice says, and then he’s dropped from a low-hanging tree branch like candlewax. His smile is wide in the evening light. “I’m right here.”

“Do you like apples?” Grantaire asks him. He’s laughing, hysterical.

Enjolras looks at him in confusion. “Do I- what? Grantaire?” His arms hang by his sides.

“I know how to do it,” Grantaire says, smiling wide, helpless. “I know how I’m going to win.”

Enjolras smiles at him, but there’s still confusion sitting heavily in his expression. “And you’re going to do it with…apples?” And again he says, “Grantaire, be serious.”

“I am always serious,” Grantaire says, smiling wider, wider. “Can I kiss you? I’d like to kiss you. I think I’m going to wither away and die if I don’t kiss you and then all of this will have been for nothing.”

He sets down the basket and steps towards Enjolras, who reaches out to slip his hand around Grantaire’s elbow. Grantaire feels warm, and light, and -dare he say it- happy.

“Why don’t we say this?” Enjolras says, holding Grantaire at arm’s length. “Explain, and then you can.”

“Oh, you merciless fiend! Unfeeling villain! Are you only using me for my knowledge? Is that all I am to you?”

“I thought you said you were always serious,” Enjolras says, eyes so fond that Grantaire feels it in his knees.

“Fine, fine, have it your way,” he huffs, but he laughs through it. “In that basket- no, don’t open it!- in that basket are three golden apples.” He pauses, partly for effect, and partly because he loves the way Enjolras looks when he’s frustrated. Grantaire never claimed to have dignity.

“Grantaire,” he says, jaw set.

“If their smell reaches you, it’s impossible to not stop what you’re doing and eat one. So if I happen to have these with me when I race you…”

“Then I’ll be forced to stop, and you’ll overtake me,” Enjolras says with dawning understanding. “But how? How do you know they work?”

“They’re gifts from Aphrodite,” Grantaire says. He blinks. “Actually, I think they’re gifts _directly_ from Aphrodite. Satisfied with my answer?”

Enjolras stares at him, “Yes, but what do you mean _directly_ from Aphrodi-”

Grantaire has yanked him over by the arm and licked into his mouth before he can even finish the name. This is terrible, Grantaire thinks to himself, getting Enjolras’ undivided attention is worse than only receiving small bursts of scorn. It goes straight to Grantaire’s head and he _feels_ so much that his chest might burst. _Wants_ so much that his chest might burst.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras mumbles against his mouth. “Grantaire.”

“Mm?” he says, moving to kiss his way down Enjolras’ neck with too much tongue to be decent. He lingers over the skin above his collarbone and decides to suck a bruise there.

“What- ha, _oh_\- what did you mean _directly_ from Aphrodite?” Enjolras stutters. Grantaire has transcended; he doesn’t know why he likes hearing Enjolras lose control over his speech so much but he _does_. He migrates to suck another bruise closer to his sternum.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras shouts. Grantaire detaches himself at looks up at Enjolras through his lashes. There’s a flush rising up his chest and his eyes are dark. _Beloved_, Grantaire thinks.

“Sorry, did you want something?” Grantaire says, peevish out of habit.

“Answer my question, Grantaire,” he says, although the authority in his voice is lessened by the breaths he’s struggling to take.

“I think she visited me,” Grantaire says. “In her temple. She told me to ask for them when I wanted them.”

Enjolras’ smile makes Grantaire feel as though he’s swallowed the sun and it’s beginning to rise behind his sternum. “This,” he says slowly, “this is _perfect_. If this is by Aphrodite’s hand, if it’s by another god’s hand- Grantaire, do you see what this means?”

Grantaire blinks at him. It dawns on him and his brow lifts. “It means that Athena won’t interfere in another god’s affairs, and if Aphrodite is helping me win, she can’t do anything about it without going against her own word.”

Enjolras presses Grantaire’s face between his hands and kisses him. “Meet me tomorrow at sunrise to the east of here, at the foot of the mountains. It’s two stadia from the sea, and no one but the gods will witness us. And a friend,” he adds. “We need an arbiter. Perhaps Combeferre.”

“Why tomorrow?” Grantaire asks. His heart beats so fast that he can feel his pulse against his skin. This is real, this is happening.

“Come to me tomorrow with a clear head and rested body. It’s good to begin things with the sun,” Enjolras says.

“Should I also come with a wedding gift?” Grantaire teases, the words tasting foreign on his tongue.

“You’ve already given it to me,” Enjolras says, taking Grantaire’s hand and bringing it to rest against the folds of his chiton, where he can feel something hard and the size of his hand. He looks up at Enjolras. His chest feels tight. He feels heavier and lighter than he’s ever felt in his life.

“I sewed a pocket,” Enjolras says quietly. “But tomorrow I will keep it somewhere else safe, for the race.”

Grantaire kisses him.

***

The sounds of Grantaire’s sandals echo softly around him as he creeps back into the palace, woven basket tucked under his arm. A figure approaches him from the end of the hall; Grantaire squints, and sees that it’s Combeferre.

Combeferre smiles at him, but Grantaire still feels like he’s being assessed. He stands straighter.

“Are your rooms comfortable?” he asks, playing the gracious host because he’s not sure what to say otherwise. Somehow he doesn’t think that Combeferre will take well to his sarcasm.

“Yes, very,” Combeferre says. “We haven’t slept in a real bed since we left Athens, it’s a relief to say the least.”

Grantaire nods. He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I won’t keep you from your sleep, then,” he says.

“Thank you, Grantaire. Goodnight,” Combeferre says. Grantaire lets him pass and hears the sound of his footsteps retreating down the hall. He clenches his hands into fists to get a grip on his nervous energy, he squeezes and worries the handle of the basket. Enjolras will be his tomorrow, and he will be Enjolras’.

A gust of cold wind makes him shiver. It’s strange; at this point in the spring, most of the chill in the air is gone.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre says from behind him, and that’s also strange, because Grantaire just heard him walk back to his guest chambers. He freezes. He’s a rabbit caught in the sights of a lion. Or more to the point, a mouse caught in the sights of an owl.

_Aphrodite save me_, Grantaire thinks.

“Aphrodite certainly does have a soft spot for you,” Combeferre says in response. _Says _in response. This isn’t Combeferre, Grantaire realises.

“My lady?” he says, spinning and dropping to his knees. He hadn’t meant it to come out a question.

“I said to you once before that you have my attention, and not my favour,” she says. “Neither of your intentions have escaped my notice.” She pauses, and Grantaire feels sweat starting to form on his palms.

Grantaire prepares himself for death. Maybe she’ll take pity on him and turn him into an animal. He hopes Enjolras will forgive him. Enjolras, who runs the risk of forfeiting her favour for Grantaire’s sake.

“Losing the challenge won’t make Enjolras lose your grace, will it?” he blurts, before his eyes widen. _Oh Hades,_ Grantaire thinks. He’s done it now.

His expression goes slack when Athena does something he does not expect: smiles. It is cold, and calculating, and condescending, but it is a smile, nonetheless. “If he is beaten in his challenge, whether by agility of body _or_ of mind, he will not lose my goodwill. It would be unwise to lose his effect in the world of men.”

Grantaire knows that she can see the relief in his face.

“As for who beats him, or how he is beaten…” Pallas Athena says, with all of the weight of an immortal. “It would be equally unwise not to recognise cleverness where it is due.”

And before Grantaire can even blink, she waves her hand and the world turns upside down. When his head stops spinning and the ground is firmly beneath his feet again, she is gone.

“What the _fuck_,” Grantaire says.

***

The sun is bright in Grantaire’s eyes as he rides to the east. But all of its brilliance cannot compare to the sight of Enjolras standing waiting for him at the foot of the mountain beside Combeferre. He stands tall and sure and golden, and Grantaire loves him.

“Hello, beloved,” Enjolras says, smile like pearls and eyes like lapis.

Grantaire dismounts, pats his horse in thanks. “Hello, beloved,” Grantaire echoes, bowing jokingly. “Hello, Combeferre.”

Combeferre nods in greeting. “Are you ready?” he asks them. He and Enjolras stand a few feet apart from Grantaire, and he feels every inch of it.

Truthfully, the answer is no. The fear that even with Aphrodite’s gifts, he will still lose, and then he will have to be killed, on top of Pallas Athena’s visit last night, resulted in Grantaire tossing and turning and staring longingly at the flask of wine at the far end of his room. He says yes anyway. Even if he had not been kept awake all night, he does not think he will ever be fully ready to win Enjolras’ hand in marriage.

“Are we waiting for something in particular to start? A flash of lightning? An olive branch dropped from a dove’s mouth? Another monstrous pig?” Grantaire says. Enjolras must know his habits well enough by now, from the way that it just makes him frown at Grantaire in thought.

“Well, you know,” Enjolras says. “The challenge still hasn’t been formally made.”

Grantaire laughs. “What a thing to forget! Alright then, listen closely: Enjolras, Wisdom’s favourite, golden as the sun, I challenge you to a footrace to win the right to wed you.”

Enjolras smiles, and Grantaire is helpless in the face of it. “I accept your challenge, Grantaire, son of Oeneus, crown prince of Calydon, slayer of the Calydonian boar. The first of the two of us to set foot into the sea is the winner.”

“Alright, take your marks,” Combeferre says, and they line up beside each other. Grantaire’s heart is beating through his chest, the veins behind his knees feel as though they’re full of worms. “On your marks, set, _go!_” Combeferre yells.

They’re off.

In the mass of trees and stony mountainside, he’s like a beacon of gold. The hair flowing behind him could outshine bronze. Wild curls fly back in the wake of his thundering feet, like tongues licking at his heels. Grantaire sees the flex of muscle in his bronzed shoulders, in his thighs, pulling him across time and space. He’s pulled ahead easily, and hasn’t looked back since.

Grantaire knows that he is in love.

He also knows that if he waits any longer, Enjolras’ lead will be too great to overcome, so he reaches into the leather bag he has strapped to his belt, and pulls out a golden apple. It gleams in the morning light. Aphrodite promised him that they would not have an effect on him, but Eros if it isn’t the most delicious thing Grantaire has ever smelled.

He takes careful aim, as careful as he can be while also running as fast as his legs will permit, and rolls the apple in front of Enjolras. It’s immediate- the moment he inhales, Enjolras stops in his tracks and picks up the apple. Grantaire flashes past him, chancing a glance backwards. There’s juice running down Enjolras’ chin as he eats it. The apple is already half gone.

Grantaire stumbles over a tree’s root and wastes a few seconds of speed trying to regain his balance. He curses with the breath left in his lungs as he hears Enjolras’ footsteps growing louder behind him. As he’s overtaken, Enjolras yells at him, “Focus, Grantaire!” His eyes are fixed on the horizon, where the sea is beckoning to them. From the corner of his eye, he sees Combeferre go thundering past on his horse to reach the sea before them.

It feels as though there’s fire in Grantaire’s torso. He’s never pushed himself to run this fast, and still been so hopelessly outmatched. He fishes for the second apple from his bag, and rolls it. As Enjolras stops everything he is doing to eat the second apple, Grantaire doesn’t make the same mistake twice. He ignores the burn in his lungs and runs faster still, feet feeling like they’re flying more than touching the ground. He spots Combeferre ahead of them, standing near the water’s edge.

At least half of the last stade is sandy beach, and nothing Grantaire does can brace him for the dramatic hit his speed takes as he loses the firm contact of soil beneath his feet. He propels himself forward as fast as he can, blood rushing in his ears, but it is still not enough to keep Enjolras from overtaking him again. He’s but ten seconds from the surf as he yells, “Grantaire!”

Grantaire says a prayer to any god that will listen to him, and throws the last golden apple. It lands just in front of Enjolras, and he skids to a stop, almost falling over himself, as he bends to grab it. Grantaire pumps his arms, wills his legs to move faster, and _runs_.

Cool flecks of water hit his ankles, and one pace later he’s mid-calf into the sea.

“Grantaire, you’ve won!” Combeferre calls to him. His momentum doesn’t let him stop until he’s ploughed into the water where it reaches his mid-thigh and the inertia is too great to overcome. He heaves in great lungfuls of clean air, trying to calm his racing heart.

He feels hands clutching at his shoulder and spinning him around before he even notices the sound of a body splashing into the sea behind him. Enjolras grabs him and pulls, bringing their mouths together in the least coordinated kiss Grantaire has ever had. They overbalance, and Grantaire lets out a noise of alarm before they fall into the water, still kissing. The taste of salt enters Grantaire’s mouth, and it’s bitter enough that it overpowers the taste of apple on Enjolras’ tongue. They emerge, spluttering, and Grantaire bursts into laughter.

“I didn’t expect winning to be quite so wet an ordeal,” Grantaire says, shaking the water out of his hair like a dog.

“And I didn’t expect my husband to cut such a close margin about it,” Enjolras says, brushing the dripping hair out of Grantaire’s eyes. He looks like a divinity rising from the sea. Grantaire’s heart clenches. _His husband_.

“Not your husband yet,” he replies cheekily.

“Yet,” Enjolras agrees, and kisses him again until Combeferre yells at them to get out of the water.

***

“Come to bed with me,” Enjolras says, breathless, once Combeferre has left them to go tell Courfeyrac the events that have transpired this morning.

Heat flares to life low in Grantaire’s belly. “Where?” he asks, pressing a kiss to Enjolras’ hand. He turns it over and kisses his palm with an open mouth. Enjolras’ breath stutters, and Grantaire grins against the calloused skin.

“In your bed, this time,” Enjolras says. “I want you to take me to your bed this time.”

“I thought you were the one who was doing the taking to bed?” Grantaire says, kissing the fine bones of Enjolras’ wrist.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, “don’t be difficult.”

“I’ll never be difficult about this, darling,” he says, kissing the inside of his elbow. He straightens and slips his hand into Enjolras’, pulling him along the halls of the palace and into his chambers. This time, he does not feel as though he’s following.

His rooms are filled with a soft sunlight from the midday sun. The faint, clean smell of spring wafts inside. Enjolras backs Grantaire against the wall the moment they clear the doorway. He is sure in his movements, he is always sure in his movements. Grantaire reaches to grasp at the still sea-damp curls at the nape of Enjolras’ neck and accepts the kiss that Enjolras gives him. It starts as something frantic and hurried, lips moving, Enjolras’ hands gripping his hips. It slows into something softer, something warmer; it fills Grantaire with something heady. They have all the time in the world now, after all.

Enjolras kisses with his jaw, Grantaire notes. He makes no idle move, even in repose, and he is beautiful for it. Grantaire can’t believe that this godlike man is going to be his husband.

“On the bed, and disrobe for me?” Grantaire asks him. Enjolras chases after him, kissing across his jaw and behind his ear. Grantaire feels his cock stirring beneath his chiton, has to close his eyes at it. All Enjolras has to do is touch him, and he is already there.

“Only if you do the same,” Enjolras says against his pulse point.

“I would do anything for you,” Grantaire says, so he does. Enjolras’ long fingers make quick work of the fastenings of his chiton, and Grantaire fumbles with Enjolras’, blindly undoing his belt as he catches Enjolras’ mouth with his own again. The garments fall to the floor, and they stumble back to Grantaire’s bed, Grantaire tripping over the cloth pooled around his ankles. Enjolras laughs into his mouth, walking backwards, and Grantaire swallows all of it.

They fall sideways onto the bed, kissing languidly. Taking the time to explore, and to be explored. Grantaire runs his hands over the firm, smooth planes of Enjolras’ body, relearns every inch he can get his hands on. The bone of Enjolras’ ankle knocks against his as he hooks his leg over Grantaire’s hip. Their cocks brush against each other, and Enjolras lets out a low moan.

“How do you want me?” Grantaire asks him. He traces around one of Enjolras’ nipples with the nail of his index finger and grins when it makes him shiver.

“I want…” Enjolras begins before trailing off. Grantaire tilts his head back to look at him. There’s a crease in his brow and his mouth is pinched small. Embarrassment, Grantaire realises. It’s strange to see it on him.

“Tell me,” he whispers, taking the nipple under his hand between his thumb and forefinger. Enjolras gasps and bucks his hips against Grantaire’s. All the breath is knocked from his lungs. “Tell me, and it’s yours.”

The air shudders out of Enjolras. “Your mouth again,” he says finally, quietly.

Grantaire pinches at him again. “Of course.” He kisses Enjolras again, lightly, before he begins to move down the bed. “Anything.”

He settles between Enjolras’ legs, kneeling over him. The muscles in his thigh twitch as Grantaire presses kisses all over them, getting sloppier, adding teeth. He sucks a bruise onto Enjolras’ hipbone, and he moans. When Grantaire rubs the scruff of his beard over the smooth, white skin of his inner thigh, Enjolras clenches his fists into the bedclothes beneath him. Grantaire notes his reaction, does it again on the other side. Enjolras’s breath stutters, and his hips buck again. Grantaire rubs against him harder.

“I like you with a beard,” he says, uncharacteristically shy. It ignites something low in Grantaire’s belly.

“Gods,” Grantaire groans, and then takes Enjolras’ straining cock into his mouth.

He swallows him all the way down once, twice, and then pulls off the lick him with the flat of his tongue. “You’re stunning,” Grantaire mumbles against the dark blond hair at the base of his cock. “You’re gorgeous.” He takes a testicle into his mouth and sucks it gently, before moving on to the other. He ignores the pulsing heat between his legs.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras pants. Grantaire looks up at him. His face is strained in pleasure, his golden hair spread around it like a halo. He looks down at Grantaire like he’s the only thing in the world, and it fills Grantaire with something sharp and warm.

“Yes, darling?” he says, swirling his tongue in circles around the broad head of his cock. He pushes his lips around it and slides down, down, until his nose is resting against his pelvic bone. He hollows his cheeks, moves back and forward again, and again.

“I want to be inside of you this time,” Enjolras gasps above him. The knuckles of his hands are white.

Grantaire pulls off with a wet noise. A bolt of want shoots through him. “Do you want to come first?” He presses soft kisses to the tops of Enjolras’ thighs, strokes him slowly with a loose hand.

Enjolras is silent for a moment. “No,” he says.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, nipping at his hipbone.

“Fine, yes,” he breathes out in a huff. “But I want to do the same for you,” he says earnestly.

Grantaire grins, and without further prompting takes Enjolras’ flushed cock into his mouth again. He keeps one hand spread over Enjolras’ hip to keep him pressed to the bed. Enjolras reaches for his other hand and laces their fingers together. He takes a fast pace, keeping the flat of his tongue against the underside of Enjolras’ cock. Enjolras’s breath becomes to come out as a moan. Grantaire rubs small circles into his skin with his thumb.

Enjolras’ body tenses, and he comes on a sigh. Grantaire pushes his nose against the coarse hair at the base of his cock and swallows him all down. He licks over Enjolras’ cock gently a few times before he crawls up to face him.

There’s a soft, sated look on Enjolras’ face. “Come here,” he smiles, holding a hand, perfectly made, against Grantaire’s cheek. He kisses him easily, and Grantaire feels like he’s drowning. He gets so lost in it that he almost chokes when he feels Enjolras’ hand wrap around his cock and stroke along his length.

“You don’t have to,” Grantaire says in a rush.

“Beloved,” Enjolras says, disappointment heavy in his voice.

Grantaire shrinks under his gaze. Enjolras’ fingers trail under his jaw.

“Look at me?” he asks, and Grantaire looks. It’s hard to meet his eyes. His cheeks are flushed with arousal and his hair hangs in golden curls around his face, darker at his temples where it’s damp with sweat and sea water. “Let me. Please.”

And Grantaire can’t refuse him anything, not when he asks like that, not ever. He doesn’t trust his voice, so he kisses him instead. Enjolras licks into his mouth slowly, methodically, takes him apart until Grantaire opens to him again. His hands slide over Grantaire’s thigh and pull it over his hip. Grantaire feels exposed to him and surrounded by him all at once. Grantaire’s breath shudders out of him, against Enjolras’ mouth, as he feels Enjolras’ hot hand circle his cock again and resume its slow pull. Slowly, he works from something steady to something unrelenting, swallowing all of Grantaire’s whispered oaths.

“Ha- _oh, _gods,” he grunts. Grantaire spends himself over Enjolras’ hand embarrassingly quickly, but he can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed when Enjolras kisses him like he’s the one who’s just come. Enjolras gets up to find a cloth.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Enjolras says, after he’s wiped his hand clean with it and fallen back into bed.

“You should- ha- you should check your eyes then,” Grantaire says, arm flopping limp over Enjolras’ side.

“You are,” Enjolras insists. “I am wiser and have better judgement than you, you should listen to me.”

“Was that…a joke?” Grantaire says, eyes going wide. “Eros above, that was a joke. And a terrible joke, if I’m going to be a bad influence you at least let me influence you properly.”

Enjolras snorts, and slides his hand up into Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire can’t help his wide, helpless grin.

“I still want to be inside of you,” Enjolras says lightly. “When you feel you’ve rested enough that we can go again.”

“Aphrodite give me strength, is this what our life will be like? You exhausting me like this, every day?” Grantaire says.

Enjolras smiles indulgently. “I see no reason why not.” His smile falters, then. “That is, of course, unless my lady sends me elsewhere.”

Grantaire feels a cold hand close over his heart. “I will come with you,” he says, feeling desperation spring forth in him.

“No, I can’t ask that of you,” Enjolras says gently. “I can’t ask you to leave your whole life behind for me, and my cause. And once your father dies, Calydon will demand its king.”

Grantaire stares at him, helpless.

Enjolras hums thoughtfully. “Unless…I could ask her to help me in my travels. Send favourable winds, clear my path. I have preferred to be self-sufficient in this regard up until now, but it’s entirely within my lady’s power to speed my journeys. Where a task might have taken weeks it could take days.”

He feels Elpis, that last gift to humanity, grasp him. “Do you think she would do that?” he asks, hardly daring to believe it.

“I think so, yes,” Enjolras says. “I will ask, and I will tell you what she decides.”

“I love you,” Grantaire says in a rush, and hauls himself into Enjolras to kiss him. He moves his lips against Enjolras’ desperately, pressing forward with every swipe of his tongue, but Enjolras slows him down, as if to remind him that they have all the time in the world. Once they are married, they will have their whole lives. Which Grantaire has to keep reminding himself of. _His husband_.

Grantaire lets his hands rove over the broad expanse of Enjolras’ back, delighting in feeling the muscle shift beneath his palms. He grins into the kiss when he feels Enjolras’ hands grip the swell of his buttock. By degrees, when his hands have had their fill of his back, Grantaire moves them to pull and tease at Enjolras’ nipples again. It pulls a high whine out of the back of Enjolras’ throat, and Grantaire rewards him for it by sucking his tongue into his mouth. When Grantaire has lost track of anything but the sounds coming from Enjolras’ mouth and the slide of his tongue against the back of Grantaire’ teeth, he feels himself swelling against his leg. Heat has grown in the pit of his stomach again and he grinds his hips against Enjolras’, feeling with a sharp spike of satisfaction that Enjolras is just the same.

“I’ve rested enough,” Grantaire mumbles. “I’ve rested more than enough, in fact. You wanted me to tell you when I’ve rested enough to go again and I am telling you: I have rested enough.”

“Then we’ll go again,” Enjolras says, before he rolls himself to settle overtop of Grantaire. It brings their hips flush against each other, and Grantaire groans at it. Enjolras rolls his hips, nipping at Grantaire’s lower lip.

“Gods, Enjolras, you’ll kill me,” he says.

“Do you have oil?” Enjolras asks him, rolling his hips again. It makes Grantaire’s exhale catch in his throat.

“On the table,” Grantaire says, and he makes a pathetic noise of disappointment when Enjolras rolls off of him to go fetch it. He watches the long lines of Enjolras’ torso as he does it. The bed dips when he returns, trailing a wet line of kisses over Grantaire’s cock. Grantaire throws an arm over his eyes; he’s afraid that if he looks, he’ll finish just at the sight of Enjolras with his lips on his cock.

Enjolras doesn’t linger there long. He moves to kiss over Grantaire’s thighs, using just enough teeth to make Grantaire seriously wonder whether Pallas Athena actually did smite him and he somehow ended up in Elysium.

“It might be easier for you if I turn over,” Grantaire says. His voice cracks.

“Alright,” Enjolras says, and lets him. Grantaire raises himself onto his knees and forearms and feels extremely exposed. He breathes harshly when he feels Enjolras’ fingers run lightly between his cheeks.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” Enjolras says, and there’s seriousness laced in his tone.

“You won’t. You couldn’t,” Grantaire says.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, chastising. His fingers still.

“Yes, fine, yes, I’ll tell you,” Grantaire says, aroused to the point of distraction.

He hears Enjolras unstopper the oil behind him, and fights the tension that’s overtaking his muscles. Enjolras’ finger circles his entrance once, oil slick, before he pushes in to the first knuckle. Grantaire breathes, and Enjolras pushes the rest of the way in. He’s almost delirious off the feeling of just this one digit. There’s no hesitation in his movements, but of course there isn’t, Grantaire thinks. He does nothing without purpose.

“Fuck,” Grantaire spits out. He rests his forehead against his arm, eyes shut tight.

“Alright?” Enjolras asks him. His free hand is braced against Grantaire’s hip, and he feels the fingers flex.

“_Yes_, keep going,” Grantaire chants. So Enjolras does, pumping his forefinger in and out again and again until Grantaire whines, “_En_-jolras.” He acquiesces, and adds a second finger, slick with more oil. The stretch burns deliciously, and Grantaire could weep from it. His cock throbs, desperate for attention, but it’s given none.

“You- you, ah, have to stretch it,” Grantaire says.

“Like this?” Enjolras asks, and his fingers brush against his prostate as he does as Grantaire instructed. Grantaire’s eyes shoot wide open.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_,” he says. “Oh fuck, oh gods.”

“You said you would tell me if I hurt you,” Enjolras says sharply. He makes to remove himself from Grantaire, but Grantaire inhales harshly.

“No, no, don’t _stop_, do that again,” he says, rambling, and he lets out a haggard noise when Enjolras does just that. “There, right there, I love you, oh gods.”

When he feels Enjolras press a third finger against his entrance, he nearly does weep. “Please, I’m ready, I don’t need anymore, Enjolras, please,” he says, his hands beginning to shake.

“I will, I promise, just one more,” Enjolras says, kissing the notches of his spine and smoothing his hand over the back of Grantaire’s leg. The air wheezes out of Grantaire’s lungs, he feels the muscles around Enjolras’ fingers _burn_. Enjolras pulls out after a long moment and Grantaire feels the loss in his chest.

“Turn over again, I want to see you when I take you,” Enjolras says.

“You, gods, you can’t just say things like that, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, but he rolls over, and the cool air on his cock makes him shiver. Enjolras kisses him in response.

The broad head of Enjolras’ cock presses against him. Grantaire can’t control the shiver that sweeps over him again. Enjolras exhales shakily, his breath fanning over Grantaire’s face, as he pushes slowly, slowly, until his hips are flush against Grantaire’s and he bottom out.

“_Shit_,” Grantaire says. Enjolras is larger than anyone he has even lain with, and the stretch where they’re joined is so good that it wipes every other thought from Grantaire’s mind.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asks him again, his voiced strained. His brow is creased, his eyes are blown black. Grantaire laughs.

“Never better,” he says, kissing Enjolras’ chin. “Now move, or I’ll die.”

Enjolras laughs, voice thin, but he begins to move. His thrusts are sure and strong, and guided by Grantaire’s cursing, he manages to find the angle that hits Grantaire’s prostate on every thrust. Grantaire fumbles to wrap his hand around his aching cock, trapped between them and his head falls back as he pumps his hand in time with Enjolras’ hips.

The room fills with their heavy breathing and the sounds of slick skin upon skin. No matter how certain Enjolras is in his movements, he is still inexperienced, and his thrusts soon begin to become erratic. He buries himself in Grantaire as he comes and Grantaire kisses him through it, whispering praises in between.

Enjolras’s hand creeps down to join his around his cock, lacing their fingers together. They bring Grantaire over the edge together, Enjolras’ mouth pressed against Grantaire’ throat, working around his choked breath. He spills over their hands and his stomach, a mangled version of Enjolras’ name wrenched out of him.

Enjolras reaches for the cloth he retrieved earlier, and wipes Grantaire clean with gentle motions. He wipes himself off much more concisely, and leaves it aside. Grantaire shuffles over to lay his head over Enjolras’ chest, still rising and falling quickly. The skin is hot, and Grantaire feels his heartbeat racing.

“I love you,” Enjolras says. He wraps his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, and Grantaire rolls fully onto his side, to curve his body against Enjolras’ side like a bracket.

“Say that again for me when you haven’t just finished twice,” Grantaire says.

“I will say it to you every day for the rest of our lives,” Enjolras says, and when he stretches down to kiss him, Grantaire is already there to meet him.

***

Grantaire gives up on pacing in their bedroom when he sees that the sun has risen. Pallas Athena called Enjolras to speak with her an hour ago, in the middle of the night, wrenched from their bed with little consideration for how empty it becomes when Enjolras is not there. He feels too antsy to stay inside, so he stumbles, half asleep, to a clearing in the woods at the edge of the grounds where he knows Enjolras is speaking with her somewhere.

The heat of the day is not yet oppressively hot, but this late in the summer it will soon be. He would worry that his piece of firewood would burst into flame from the sun’s rays alone if Enjolras did not take such extensive care with it. Grantaire feels almost careless with it by comparison when his husband leaves it with him when he is called to other provinces. This does not surprise him, though; everything in his life is better when it is in both of their hands. Grantaire sits down at the foot of a cypress tree, and doesn’t realise his mistake until he slumps over from exhaustion. 

Grantaire wakes to a hand on his cheek. It’s laid with such tenderness that he doesn’t reach for his sword; it could only be one person.

“Beloved,” Enjolras breathes, fond, “why are you asleep on the ground?”

“I was waiting for you,” he replies thickly, fumbling to grasp Enjolras’ hand in his own and press the golden knuckles to his lips. Enjolras lets him linger before he swipes his thumb across Grantaire’s bottom lip.

“Well, I’m returned now,” he murmurs before he lays down to face Grantaire. They drift together into a slow, lazy kiss. It feels to Grantaire like honey poured from a jar.

“What did she have to say?” he asks against Enjolras’ jaw, drinking in his heavy breaths at the touch. He doesn’t want to invoke Athena’s name, he wants to keep this moment private, especially from the gods.

“Must we?” Enjolras breathes, hands travelling to grasp Grantaire’s buttocks beneath his chiton.

“No, I don’t suppose we must,” he whispers into Enjolras’ mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> sum thoughts about atalanta:  
\- atalanta is one of my favourite mythological figures and i had to change So Many things to make this work but they're worth mentioning anyway  
\- atalanta's patron goddess is artemis, not athena, but obviously it didn't make sense for enjolras' patron to be the goddess of maidenhood?  
\- the hunt for the calydonian boar included the best heroes of the age (the generation before the trojan war, and they were called the best of the hellenes). the only reason herakles didn't turn up was because he was off chasing his own giant pig  
\- grantaire's character is based off of two of atalanta's romantic interests. the first is meleager, who was involved in the hunt for the calydonian boar. when he gave atalanta its hide, his uncles were furious and he ended up killing them over it. his mother, distraught, threw the piece of firewood that the fates warned her about into the fire, and meleager died. in pity, artemis turned two of his sisters into guinea fowl.  
the second, hippomenes (although some sources name him differently), was the one who came up with the use of aphrodite's golden apples after atalanta's father announced that she needed to marry and she came up with the idea of the race because she Wasn't Into That. she was so Not Into That, in fact, that when two centaurs named hylaeus and rhoesus tried to get her to marry them (but, i mean, after they'd tried to assault her) she killed them. her son with hippomenes, parthenopaios, ended up being one of the seven against thebes (you know, that whole oedipus deal), which enjolras was sent to talk the king of argos out of joining because i wanted to include it in some way idk  
\- if the name deineira (one of grantaire's sisters' names) sounds to familiar to you, it's because she's herakles' wife!  
\- this story is called what it's called because hippomenes and atalanta were turned into lions after zeus caught them bumping uglies in one of his temples (although some sources say that it was other gods, for other reasons). the belief at the time was that lions could only mate with leopards, so they would be unable to be together. yay for science!


End file.
